Conquest of Elibe
by AdConsequentiam
Summary: What became of Mark after the fall of Nergal? What if he had been present during the events of Fire Emblem 6, but acting as the puppeteer behind Zephiel's actions? Chapter six soon to arrive!
1. Prologue

**Many times have we faithful fans of Fire Emblem wondered what became of the story's most elusive character(and judging from all these fanfics, the most popular), the faceless tactician, Mark. Feeling the frustration of having our avatar in the Fire Emblem universe shoved under the rug and forgotten after the events of Blazing Sword, I decided to take it upon myself to write a fanfic chronicling his exploits during and after the Sword of Seals, but with a twist, as the series' unforeseen antagonist.**

**Now the work itself will take place in three different time story arcs: recently after the events of Fire Emblem 7, during Fire Emblem 6(Prequel to Fire Emblem 7), and finally four years after Fire Emblem 6. What the first part of the story will deal with is Mark's consequent "fall to the darkside" and the realization of his ambitions. The second part of the story will detail Mark working behind the scenes during the Sword of Seals to further his own ends. The last part of the story will show Mark's plans coming to fruition and the war between himself and Roy's Regiment. Part I-II will take place from Mark's point-of-view and provide some insight into his actions in addition to the rationale behind them. Part III, which will be the majority of the story, takes the perspective of Roy and Co and their struggle against this invisible mastermind who is now threatening the stability of Elibe.**

**For those of you who haven't lost interest due to my long introduction, I sincerely apologize. So without further adieu, Conquest of Elibe. I don't know own Fire Emblem or any of its characters.**

**_"Then I saw there was a way to Hell even from the gates of Heaven"_**

**_John Bunyan, _**

**_Pilgrim's Progress_**

"I suppose this wasn't the ideal time to travel," remarked a youngman donning a forest-green cloak, "Regardless, I've gone far enough."

Within the last half an hour the weather had taken a turn for the worst, going from humid clouds to a torrential downpour in the blink of an eye. Since leaving the port city of Firstgrasp, he had the ill-luck of happening upon one misfortune after another. His most recent one being accosted by half a dozen bandits en route to his destination. The trouble following his bandit-run-in was not the bandits themselves but the precious time he lost during the whole encounter. Afterall, he was no fighter and had to rely on hit-and-run tactics during the entire conflict. Using trees, undergrowth, rocks, shrubs, etc as cover during the bandit assault, not to mention a slew of other guerrila tactics, helped him prevail without any permanent bodily harm, but also consumed much of his valued time. Realizing his delay, he continued at an increased walking pace and failed to take into consideration the weather.

While on the move, the tactician began to recollect what had recently transpired since the defeat of Nergal. Mark had taken refuge in an isolated Bernese village he had stumbled on earlier in his travels. The village itself wasn't any place of repute, but the locals had taken a liking to him, in particular, a certain female villager who was quite smitten by the strategist. She had proven an amiable creature toward Mark despite his occupation as a staff officer for hire. It was well known that commoners had less than endearing sentiments toward mercenaries. The former group being perceived as ill-tempered men willing to sell their swords and conscious for money and never willing to work an honest day's labor in their entire lives, coupled with the fact bandit raiding parties made frequent use of mercenaries, you have an animosity between peasants and hessians superceding class warfare.

Social standing aside, the relationship between the villager and the tactician had gotten intimate enough for the latter to seriously contemplate settling down and forgoing his current life in favor of a more humble and rustic one. This dream was quickly dispelled when he received a formal summoning from Marquess Ostia, requesting an audience regarding an urgent matter. Mark heeded the call and met with Hector, unable to not comply with his old friend. The greater bit of the meeting was nothing short of pleasantries exchanged between old comrades, but the thing of interest was information gained via Ostian spies: that Bern and Etrurian were interested in procuring Mark's tacticial prowess by any means necessary. What this meant was anyone close or of any relavance to the tactician could be taken as collateral to coerce him into service for either of the two nations.

His hand forced, all the Superb Mind could do was disappear out of plain site. On his way out of the throne room in Castle Ostia, he requested a messenger be ready to carry a letter back to his former residence in the Bernese village. The letter itself was addressed to the general populace of the town explaining that he could not return due to recent complications. He had the sagacity not to mention Bern and Etruria's aims incase the letter was intercepted, but detailed enough to convey the meaning something is preventing him from returning.

And now here he was, in a remote part of the Western Isles, in the heart of Etruria's war-effort to annex pending territories. Mark, believing that no corner of Elibe was truly safe, intended to hide ride under the nose of Etruria to avoid capture. To the casual observer, the tactian's gambit was utter idiocy which put him in unncessary jeopardy, but it accomplished a number of goals advantageous to himself: first, it lessened the Bern presence by Mark moving in the epicentre of Etrurian conquest where no Bernese interests were not at stake, second, it was such a bold movement in itself that the Etrurian government would never suspect Mark hiding out in the very place they're waging war, finally, by relocating to a remote area, he severely lessened the risk of having those close to him involved. Seeking out safe-haven in either Pherae or Ostia was out of the question for the reason it would create a political hurdle for the respective marquesses to painstakingly overcome. The last thing Hector and Eliwood needed was international pressure to hand over the continent's most renowned tactican.

With his mind fixed upon a present goal, he snapped out of his reminiscing and returned to his current predicament

"The only way for this sojourn could go anymore amiss would be for me to encounter the devil himself," jokingly added the strategist.

The Superb Mind, in all his weird mannerisms, had the habit of talking to himself even when others weren't around to hear. Sain had often quipped that the cause of this particular eccentricity was unwarranted-importance on the strategist's part. The tactician's rebuttal to this charge was to promptly give Sain frontline duty or the bothersome task of escorting the band's craven merchant, Merlinus. Despite the occasion friction of the group, he(Mark) had nostalgic memories of Eliwood's Elite. He recalled Serra's attempts to have a vassal assigned to her and how Matthew frequently complained to the tactician of having to guard Serra.

Mark looked forward with a grin while remembering one incident where Hector attempted to throttle him for a ballistae nearly taking Florina's head off and Lyn consequently hitting Hector over the head with her sword's sheath. Lyn, the sister Mark never had. Out of all those who served under his command, none were more convinced of his tacticial prowess than Lyn herself(1). He remembered the first encounter he had with the Sacaen princess; waking up half naked in a cot, with a bandage across his shoulder where a bandit's handaxe had struck, and finding a lithe figure across the hut, bowl in hand, who had nursed him back to health. Fortunately they had not left Mark naked, but they had pilfered anything of value including all his money. Had not Lyn stumbled upon his form in the scorching Sacaen plain, he most likely would have died of dehydratrion.

Veiling his head with the cloak's hood, the tactician continued onward at an increased walking-pace hoping to avoid continued exposure to the elements. For the time being, his priority will be finding a place of shelter such as an inn, or at the very least, a hovel, to take refuge in until the storm subsided. The worst scenario that could occur would be a flashflood and he had no intention of being caught in the deluge's destructive path. The area he was currently traveling, the coastal portion of the Western Isles, was prone to such flooding. With the knowledge of region's tendency to be submerged, he went further inland hoping to find higher ground.

After walking two hours and enduring the fury of the storm, he came up on a rickety tavern located to the side of the rough mountain road with the name "Jake's Place(2)" inscribed in the bar's sign. The building itself was two stories high, constructed of plywood and the size of a small house with a stone chimney protruding out the side. The hinges on the doors, windows, and the cellar off to the building's other side were comprised of worn bronze. The place gave off an air of olden age far beyond its years, even though the bar itself couldn't have been built any longer than thirty years ago.

"Odd, who in their right mind would establish a pub in such a desolate place?" Skeptically mused the young tactician.

Standing there observing the place, he deduced that this could either be an elaborate hoax by highwayman to lure unsuspecting travelers inside... or that the owner of the bar had lacked any sort of business sense. The weather, if it were at all possible, seemed to agree with the notion of Mark entering the tavern, because the rage of storm intensified to the point of producing howling winds causing the rain to start falling diagonally and the surrounding foliage to sway back and forth. Without further doddling, the would-be master tactician entered the the tavern with a divine tome in hand incase he needed to ward off the attacks of ambushers. Fortunately, he had learned to use light magic back in his days at the priory(3).

"What can I do ya for, sir?" Asked the bar's proprietor and bartender, Jake, to the traveler who just entered.

Jake noted that this new patron had an unusual air about him. Something told the bar owner that there was something different about this green-clad vagabond. That being said, Jake took his every features into account. From what could be told, this person was between the height of 5 ft 10 in - 6 ft 1 in, he was neither fit nor scrawny being just lean. The bartender guessed his new customer was foreign, considering his unsual garb and distinct gait. Beyond all that, Jake couldn't tell of this man's face because it was obscured by his cloak's hood.

"Nothing for the time being, unless you have a vacant room for the night," replied Mark.

"Yep, sure do,' liltingly replied the barkeep.

Feeling more at ease, Mark withdrew his spell tome and fully crossed the bar's threshold. Proceeding over to the pub's counter, he noticed that the place was brightly lit and in no dire need of repairs inside. The tables were decorated with quasi-ornate utinsels, plates and cloths, objects those of nobility would of scoffed at, but decorative nonetheless. Silver mugs lined the counter neatly and indicated a great deal of care went into the bar's arrangement. His brilliant mind always at work, he dedcided the tavern wasn't a trap and took a seat infront of the counter.

"What brings you out this far, stranger?" asked Jake, trying to sound as least nosey as possible.

"Political feuds here and there," casually replied the stranger as he removed the cloak's hood revealing his facial features for all to see.

From what Jake could see, this person was in his early twenties and his appearance included: short and dark-brown hair, gaunt facial features with a proportionally shaped head, thin lips which were contrasted by a thick neck, an exposed forehead with long eyebrows, along with a tanned skin indicating this person had traveled a great deal under the sweltering sun. In addition to his eminent aura, there were two more unsual things about this man. The first being his ocean-blue eyes; spheres which seemed to pierce a man to his very core. Jake inwardly blanched as this newcomer passively looked him over with those eyes as he scanned the surrounding abode. The second feature, perhaps more subtle than the first, was the clearness in which this wanderer spoke. The barkeep wondered whether this was a necessity for whatever this person's occupation was, whatever it could be...

"How much?" inquired Mark.

"What?" dumbly replied the barkeep being snapped out of his reverie.

"How much for one night's stay?"

"Well, let me think for a moment...since I haven't gotten anyone in a while I'll give ya a discount. How does fifteen helmunds sound?"

"A reasonable payment" Mark matter-of-factly stated as he withdrew the exact amount of copper coins from one of the many pockets in the enterior of his cloak.

"So what exactly did you mean by 'Political feuds?'" asked Jake.

"I meant what I said," retorted Mark and followed up with "And you'd do well to mind your own affair."

_Silence, except for the furious barrage of the storm on the building's roof._

_"_I...apologize for that, it was uncalled for_," _said Mark apologetically.

"Hey, if you got some emotional baggage you don't feel like sharing that's aces by me."

"Much obliged" replied the strategist. In truth, Mark wasn't inclined to being so terse, but recent occurences in his life have rendered him weary.

Searching desperately to dispel the awkward silence, Jake tried to start a new conversation.

"Sooo... what do you think about Etruria declaring martial rule of the Western Isles?" emphatically asked the barkeep.

With more emotion than before the wanderer answered with "I'd say that any Etrurian forces are in for one hell of a haul. I highly doubt the free people of Caledonia will kowtow to foreign rule without so much as a fight."

"I heard that," said Jake visibly pleased to not have earned the ire of his only patron in Elmine knows how long.

Off on a better foot, the two sat conversing for hours on a wide range of topics ranging from warfare, former experiences, the latest gossip, their past love experiences(the strategist noted how much this one would of irked the former female members of his army if they were there to hear), and much more. Mark found Jake's simplicity refreshing in the same way a mathematician is relieved to be able to use simple arithmetic over the complex number theories, algorithms, esoteric theorems, along with the study's nomenclature. After conversing for a number of hours, Mark decided it was time to turn in. He found his room on the second floor to be sparsely renovated with nothing but a cloth cot on the floor, an empty shelf on the wall, a wooden chair in the corner, and a watering bucket in the opposite corner. Extracting his cloak, he finally withdrew from the world of the waking ignorant to the fact this would be the last peaceful slumber he'd ever get.

Upon waking and peering out the hallway's window, he discovered the next morning's climate was an immense improved over yesterday's rainstorm. Without further delay, Mark packed his possessions and opted to exit the inn. On his way out, Jake tried to warn the tactician of prowling Etrurian scouts in the area, but before the words could escape his mouth a voice in his head resounded:

"_I'm fully cognizant of those footsoldiers. You need not concern yourself over my well-being_," without so much as turning around, Mark continued walking and exited through the door(5).

Jake stood there dumbstruck for a moment before going back to polishing the tavern's mugs.

"I really outta find a better location for this place."

His traveling gone unabated without pesterous bandits or the cause-and-effect of dysentery-inducing food, Mark concluded that today was a much more suitable time to travel. He took a moment to gather his surrounding and surmised he was once again traveling Caledonia's coast. He was still too far inland to visibly see the ocean, but he could smell the sea salt, and the chorus of seagalls as they fly en masse.

Traveling for roughly four hours, stopping here and there to take a break, exchanging greetings with other travelers on the road, and getting a baring on his location, he continued forward hoping to not have any repeat incidence from yesterday. Walking on a winding and worn road between the ocean cliff and a forest, the tactician overheard authoritative commands coming further ahead. Without pause, he maneuvered into the forest to the path's side and skulked forward adjacent to the road. What sight greeted Mark as he moved into the outer fringes of the overgrowth were three similarly clad soldiers holding up an old merchant and his young daughter, most likely in her mid teens, along with their wagon. Judging from the blue armor and crests adorning their shields, they were most likely an Etrurian patrol, undoubtably conscripts considering that the professional army wasn't known to be as barberous or hostile toward unarmed peasants.

"I'll ask one more time. Where are you taking these crates, old man!?" demandingly shouted one of the soldiers.

"I told already you, sir, I'm a mere fur trader transportating my goods to towns within this region," fairly responded the elderly merchant trying his best not to anger his interrogators.

"Horse shit, I bet you're one of those Caledonia insurgents! Do you think lying to us will help ya any!?"

"What can I possibly do to avoid any sort of incident, good sir?" Now pleadingly asked the trader.

"Well, for starters, you pay us tribute and we'll let this whole thing slide. Plus, handing over this pretty little wench might help your case," said soldier grinned as he grasped both of the young girl's wrists upward.

"Eww, let me go, you pervert!" the young girl screamed and started thrashing violently against her captor's grip.

"Don't screw with me you little bitch!"

The annoyed conscript then backed handed the girl across her face with his gauntlet-clad hand, forcefully knocking the defiant girl to the group with a bloodied cheek. This action earned the sadistic laughter of all troops present.

At this point, Mark was debating whether to leave these poor commoners to their fate or doing something to help them. In the past, he wouldn't of a finger lifted to help anyone unless it directly benefitted himself, but being a member of Eliwood's Elite, and by extensions, being exposed to the chivalric beliefs of its knights has rubbed off on the tactician. In the end, knightly idealism prevailed against the Social Darwinism.

Before the soldier could do the now sprawled-girl anymore harm, a beam of light came burning through the vegetation and incinerated the soldier. Before the remaining two soldiers could pinpoint their assailant and even realize what had just happened, they heard chants coming perpendicular their location. Without further hesitation, the two charged into the thicket iron lances held in an offensive position. All the first soldier saw before his death was a man in a forest green cloak uttering a euphonic incantation "Per the Divinus Luminarium, adiuvo me per annullo the scelestus" and with that, the soldier collapsed with a burning hole through his torso.

Mark now noticed the second and last lancer was too close to cast a successful spell without being skewered; so he compensated by gathering an orb of magical energy with his free hand(Or in Mark's case, light energy), and attempted to parry the incoming the spearhead. This was a common trick employed by mages when a melee fighter was too close for a long-range spell. The result was disastrous, Mark's feeble attempt to counter the soldier's weapon not only did not work, but it was so weak that the spearpoint penetrated and successfully impaled Mark's right shoulder. His nerves screaming at him, he could do little but stagger backwards. This is when it dawned on Mark that his opponent was now in vulnerable footing, and therefore susceptible to a counterattack. With a last ditch effort to down his foe, the tactician tapped the last remnants of his magical reserves and concentrated it into his palm. With an even greater sphere of energy, he thrust it into the head of the soldier. The effect was instant as the contents of the etrurian's head exploded out the back of his skull. The most disturbing part of the whole confrontation was not the violence, but the passive expression on the now dead soldier's face as he fell to the ground lifeless, as though Mark's deathblow had not been delivered at all.

Confrontation over, the tactician staggered out of the thicket unto the road and proceeded to pour a vulnerary on his gaping wound. Rushing over the merchant and his daughter were quick to thank Mark for his intervention.

"By the prophet Elmine we're indebted to you! If you had not come sooner who knows what those knaves would of done to me or my daughter. What can I possibly do to repay you?"

"All I require of you is to leave this place," responded the strategist.

"But..."

"You don't want to be here when a second patrol stumbles upon their slain comrade's corpses, now go!"

"Sir, at least give me the name of my savior."

"It's Mark."

As commanded, the old man retreated with his daughter but not before thanking his rescuer once more for his service. As they left, the young girl turned around looking at this injured stranger and resolved to never forget the face of this man who had spared her and her father the soldiers' wrath.

Still feeling fatigued, the tactician took a moment to regain his breath. The last attack had taken a toll on his stamia and he was not used to engaging in open skirmishes. After a period of what seemed a few minutes, Mark finally began to weakly walk forward only to be stopped by a sharp, piercing sensation in the lower-left portion of his back, located above the second rib. He didn't need to turn around to examine the wound to know what it was; an arrow had lodged itself in him, and judging from his sudden light-headedness, it was coated with some sort of potent hematotoxins from a local pit viper.

Before his world went dark, all he could do was curse himself for his failure to the check interior of the forest for any free-roaming Etrurian foresters.

**Yeah I used a cliffhanger, so sue me. What will become of our beloved tactician now that he's been subdued by an archer's arrow? Find out in the next chapter.**

**-Ahem- Now for the footnotes.**

**(1****) ****For those of you cringing at the thought of another damned Tactician X Lyn story, have no fear. I had no intention incorporating this pairing into the story. The relationship between Mark and Lyn is a strictly platonic one. For fans of this pairing, my apologies. **

**I will concede whether or not I will have one or the other character secretly harboring romantic feelings for the other...if it will add character depth to the story.**

**(2) Jake is not my OC, but a recurring character within the Fire Emblem franchise such as Anne from the tutorials. Don't believe me? Look it up on a FE fansite.**

**(3)You read correctly. I'm casting Mark off as someone who spent time in a monastery earlier in his lifetime. "But we thought Mark was a tactician and not a friar!" Well, I'll elaborate more on that sticky situation in later chapters with additional backstory to the tactician. The primary reason for him being a light-user is because an antagonist who usesdark magic is already done to death.**

**(4)I'm also giving the tactician minor psionic abilities. This is intened to reconcile how he was able to maintain communications with his units at all times. Do not confuse this with some sort of sorcery and take it as one of Mark's more innate abilities.**

**Criticisms are appreciated and reviews are a welcome change. This is my first fanfic so tell me if I'm doing it wrong.**

**Thank you for reading.**


	2. Helispunt March

**First, I'd like to thank my reviewers and the kind words. Hopefully I will be able to fulfill your expectations in any of my future tale spinning. **

**To answer a question posed by one reviewer: the reason this story is labelled tragedy is more to with the fact of Mark's villain status as opposed to being outright killed. Think of it this way, how do you think the surviving members of Eliwood's Elite would feel after finally discovering that Mark has turned evil? Part of the reason I'm writing this story is because I thought it would make interesting character reaction and how'd they take on their former friend/commander who saved Elibe once before. Think of Mark as having a Darth Revan complex to him.**

**Just alittle heads up, this is the part of the story where Mark's world is turned upside down. Now unto the story. I still don't own Fire Emblem or any of its characters. If I did, there sure as hell wouldn't be an easy mode. **

**Conquest of Elibe: chapter 2**

_**"This is the way the world ends**_

_**Not with a bang but a whimper." **_

**The Hollow Men**

**- T.S. Eliot**

Within the thralls of agony, the tactician violently thrashed and groaned during his entire venom-induced coma. The racking sensation of the serpent's poison caused every nerve and synapse to cry out even in sleep, resulting in grotesque muscle spasms during his comatosity. In his current condition, the most severe fever seemed like nothing more than a minor head cold. Every sort of pain and ailment accompanied with a violent reaction to a foreign entity in one's bloodstream were his to reap.

He dreamt of many things during his comatose. Partially because as of late he's had many dreamless nights and very little time to sort out his personal issues, partially because it was one of the few things his subconscious could do to alleviate the torment he was enduring at the present.

_It was humid dusk in Bern. Their army had completed their objective of securing the Shrine of Seals and toppling Linus's forces. After the grueling battle, the members of Eliwood's Elite were unwinding and generally making merriment back at their less than stellar camp so many have grown accustomed to referring to as "home." The three lords were carrying on their usual conversation, which seemed to inevitably end with Lyn and Hector arguing over something petty and Eliwood acting as the mediator between the two parties. Wil was catching hell from Rebecca for trying to sneak off with a pre-dinner snack. Wallace was regaling tales of the battle he's been with the rapt interest of those listening (Nino in particular). Fiora and Kent were off to the side of the camp "discussing" more of their ideas regarding battle strategy and troop conduct. Guy and Karel were dueling, with Karel attempting to teach his engrossed pupil the obligue feint technique of long forgotten eastern swordmasters. Sain...well... was being Sain and attempting to woo Serra. How he could stand her and vice versa was something that would forever evade Mark's understanding. For the most part, the group was living the commaraderie often forged by those who spent day in and out in the crucible of war._

_Athos made an impromptu apperance proceeding the fighting. Everyone within the camp knew of the how preoccupied he was with the preparation for their inevitable confrontation with Nergal, though the Archsage did decide linger, if only for a little, with that band of misfists known as Eliwood's Elite._

_The strategist found it odd that Athos would request to speak him in the absence of the lords. On his way to the meet the Archsage, the tactician's mind mediated on the possible affairs that this meeting would regard. When he saw the oldened sage in plain site, he found that Athos was standing on hilltop overlooking the scenery. Despite facing the opposite direction as Mark, he was already aware of the tacitician's presence as he approached._

_"I've spoken with both Pent and Hawkeye on the status and success of this group. So being, they tell me many things about you, tactician."_

_"Hopefully nothing bad."_

_Still staring out unto the world before him as though in deep thought. The Archsage responded after a few moments of silence_

_"What they tell me is that you're quite personable with those serving under you, yet somehow you try to stay your distance when it is possible."_

_Trying to sound respectful, the tactician responded to this claim with:_

_"I try indifference for a reason. If I were to become too attached to any member of this band it could ultimately effect my judgment and practicality as the staff officer__._ _As someone whose dedicated his life to the unravelling of magic codices, you can see where I'm coming from when I say the one thing antithetical to reason is emotion, Venerable Archsage."_

_"Well said, but your demeanor is not why I have truly called you here...merely a facet of it."_

_"Then why have you called me here? Surely my tactical prowess is not unsatisfactory."_

_Still with his back turned to the tactician and facing the down below, the archsage took these words into consideration as trying to avoid a touchy subject._

_"Tell me, son of wisdom, when this conflict is resolved what do you plan to do?"_

_Now this question caught Mark off guard. Not only did he himself not indepthly consider what he'd do once his contract expired, but he was humbled, almost flattered that the Living Legend, a man who's fought against the fiercest denizens of the draconic race and lived a thousand years to witness civilizations rise and fall, had taken a personal interest in him, a fledgling tactician of very little consequence. _

_Trying to regain his mental composure and seem as less stricken as possible. He answered Atho's inquiry with any nonchalantless he could muster._

_"I suppose what I will do is go back to mercenary work as a tactician for hire doing odd jobs here and there. I have no delusion that my role in this whole affair will be marginalized. Even so, I also hold no doubts that anything I do in the future will be nearly as important or grandiose as what I am doing right now."_

_This is when the Archsage finally turned to face the strategist face-to-face with a serious look upon his haggard features. The same sort of severity a general exhibits when he's addressing his troops right before a crucial battle._

_"Superb Mind, no Mark, whatever happens, whatever ambition may overtake you in days to come, you most swear to me that you will learn the lessons of Nergal's folly, in addition to every other tyrant in history, and not forget the sanctity of life."_

_If Athos's question didn't completely throw Mark for a loop, this pleading surely did. Why was Athos coming from this angle? Had Mark done something to indicate he had the propensity to abuse his powers, or rather, what was it something the archsage was portenting to? The tacitican finally responded, barely able to keep himself from cluttering his speech._

_"Why are you asking this of me. Have I failed your expectations somehow?"_

_The Archsage stood there examining the tactician as though searching for any sort of abnormalities in the Mark's behavior. When his scrutiny yielded no results, the Archsage resumed his speech in a less severe tone._

_"Because, son of wisdom, in you is a talent that only manifests itself once in a millennia, your mind. As an onlooker, I have witness the fall of many...consumed by their own talents and hubris. Infact, one of the reason we're fighting right now is because of that"_

_Mark, finally starting to grasp the gravity behind the Archsage's words, knew where this dialogue was headed._

_"I believe your fears are missplaced, if I'd be so bold to say, Master Athos. I'm not a sorceror of supernatural ability or a strong-armed warlord. What sort of threat could I present to the world if I'm barely able to hold my own in a fight?"_

_"Very true. Your never learned the way of the sword and your spellcasting is less than refined, but that is not where my worry lies. Of all the things Providence deemed to give us mortals, nothing is neither as creative nor destructive as the mind. Why would one need to fight when they already possess the knowledge to topple kingdoms, turn former friends on eachother, and embroil a continent in war?"_

_"Athos...I understand."_

_"Then you finally comprehend what it is I'm asking...why I ask of it. Now, tactician, make your oath not just for our sake, but for your own!"_

_ In hopes he could avert Mark from becoming the thing Nergal has regressed to, a once virtuous man who became obsessed with the power alotted to him, Athos had implored Mark to stay the course, as though he already knew the actions Mark would take twenty years from then. The Archsage always seemed to have a grasp of things far exceeding normal human foresight or understanding. For any who could of witnessed the conversation and possessed divination, they would be in awe of how eerily foreshadowing Athos's request was(1)._

When the tactician finally awoke, he found himself sweating profusely and became painfully aware of the blisters around the wound. Blotches of dead skin had formed over a portions of his body, not only that, but when he had attempted to speak he unvoluntarily started bleeding out the mouth, indicating that it would be wise not to talk for awhile. Everytime he attempted to move, even slightly, he further suffered the affliction caused by the poison-coated arrow. Even lying prone on the ground was a fight between passing back into unconsciousness and crying out like an infant. For the sake of his pride(not to mention manhood), he determined he would not do the former and he sure as hell didn't want do the first out of fear of being unable to react to anybody wishing him harm.

He wasn't in the same place he had been he was struck by the arrow. His current local, which he hadn't ventured, changed from that old cliffside road to the inside of some abandoned shack. For that matter, how exactly long had he been unconscious, a few hours, days, maybe even a week or two? Untop of all that, who had brought him here in the first place? Much to his dismay, someone had relieved him his travelling cloak, along with all his other possesions, and had replaced them with tattered and generic looking clothing unfit for a pauper.

With these questions looming in his head the door to the shack opened and closed. Someone had just entered, but Mark was too exhausted, in addition to not wanting to invoke anymore pain, to turn to see who it was.

The time exceeded a more than prolonged silence until someone spoke.

"So glad you're finally awake," tauntedly jabbed this new person in a harsh tone.

Still unable to see who it was, Mark said nothing in return.

"Too good to reply to me, eh? You got alot of nerve, prick, considering I'm the one who saved your worthless life by having the company healer administer the antidote when you were still passed out."

Now that he had thought about it, it was odd he was still alive. From cursory knowledge gained from an almanac, viper toxins were fatal; often causing organ failure and muscle death, resulting in the demise of anyone unlucky enough to be infected by the concoction. Indeed, this person had given him some sort of remedy to hinder further progession of the venom, but not enough to spare him the symptoms following. For the time being, he would be glad he's alive at all. Though thankful to this person to a degree, the tactician highly doubted he had given the antidote out of the kindness of his heart.

Suspecting there was some sort of ulterior motive behind this action, he tried to speak to only find himself vomiting blood on the floor.

_"Perhaps alchemists of this era should consider an antitoxin which stops internal bleeding," _he bitterly thought to himself.

"Hmmph, well in any case, you don't have to worry about dying. Though, where you're going you sure as hell will wish you did," added the stranger.

With confirmation that this person had ill-intentions toward him, Mark forced his head upright to face his savior and the man who was about to condemn him to a fate worse than the grave. What sight greeted the strategist could have only been worse if he was face-to-face with a resurrected Nergal. Standing off to side of the room, was a man enclosed in decorative blue armor with a graphic sigil of a gryphon clutching a bundle spears in one claw and a skull in the other adorned upon his cuirass. This man was an Etrurian officer of some sort, and judging from his wroth countinance, he was less than pleased with his captive.

"One of our scouts subdued you and brought you before me. According to his account, you had murdered three of our soldiers and were about to flee the scene. Did you honestly believe you could elude our justice?

With these charges cast at him, the tactician said nothing. What could of he had said? Outright lie by contending he had not been the one who slaughtered the patrol. Try to explain that the soldiers were assaulting an innocent man and his daughter? No, such a case would of fallen on deaf ears. Why waste his breath when this man would undoubtably hear none of it? Mark continued to maintain his silence, knowing full well that any word would equally damn him.

Provoked by this assailant's defiance in speaking, the Etrurian officer marched across the room and kicked the strategist in his abdominal. Mark let out a surprised grunt at this sudden action and flipped over on his back clutching his stomach. He looked up in fear of being smited a second time and beheld that this man was looking down on him with the utmost hatred. This officer hated the tactician with every fiber of his being for what Mark had done. In his mind, the tactician was on par with the most vile cowards, oathbreakers, embezzlers, and every other social undesirable.

Though it seemed like it he was about to strike Mark a second time, he regained his composure and said:

"I suggest you get some rest,"

Trying to prevent himself from wretching anymore blood, Mark could only force out a barely audible "Why?"

"Because we'll be marching to the piers with all the other captured scum, yourself included. You'll need whatever strength your thin frame can muster."

With these words spoken, the man began to walk out of the shack but turned around and said:

"Course', it doesn't matter to me whether you're rested or not, you'll be in for the same hell. I'll tell my soldiers to give you 'preferential treatment,'" Mark noticed that he put great tense in the last part.

After the etrurian's exist, Mark let himself drift into slumber, assured that no harm could befall him(or at least death) in the interim between the present and that predetermined time.

It had been scarcely three hours before he felt the sharp prodding of spearhead in his back rousing him out of his sleep. The tactician didn't need further persuading to get him, for he knew the most likely outcome if he were too slow in his compliance. Still feeling the ache of the toxin, though notably better from a few hours ago, he forced himself into a standing postion. As he was trying to gain his equilibrium, the assigned escort struck the back of his head knocking him to the floor.

"You really aught to watch your step, wouldn't want you to trip now," the footsoldier said, not even attempting to hide his enjoyment.

Resentment rising in him, he once again gained his footing and was promptly forced outside the building into the great outdoors. After walking a little distance he arrived at a nearby city named Helispunt, currently under the occupation of this foreign army. On the outskirts on the city was a plethora of captured enemy combatants, whom had opposed the Etrurian occupation. Some were the little of what remained of the Western Isle's militia, along with the more organized resistance, among them were brigands looking to take advantage of the confusion, mercenaries hired to bolster the Caledonian resistance, and even some civilians who had little to do with anything but were nonetheless caught up as innocent bystanders. All had stood up in the face of aggressive expansionism, all had fallen, and all the rest were now under the watchful vigil of amoral Etrurian guardsmen.

Being forced into one of the rows, Mark brooded on whether he were to be unceremoniously executed with these mundanes and lowlifes, and having his body tossed into some unmarked mass grave, history forgetting his very existence, one of the nameless casualities sacrificed upon the altar of hegemony. Recalling the etrurian's mention of a march, he determined this was an most unlikely end result, though somewhat still unsure. In the wake of these thoughts, he was abruptly commanded to stand along with the rest of the prisoners. Now began the event later historians would name as the Helispunt Death March(2).

What atrocities Mark would witness during this march of the damned would shape his outlook and future actions. En route to the collective destination of the prisoners, Mark saw first hand the magnitude and destruction the Etrurian invasion brought to the Isles. War ravaged villages, farms ransacked, desecrated cathedrals, burned cities, destroyed villages, once fertile valleys now scorched graveyards littered with the corpses of the condemned. Innocent children who had lost their parents and homes as a result of the Subjugation Wars(3), were now on the side of the roads begging for food and water and crying for their now dead mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and family members. The tactician saw on their many of them were malnoursished, hideously disfigured, and utter defeat had overtaken their once youthful vistages, replaced with hopelessness and despair. All afflictions a child should never have to bare in a just and moral world. In this war, just as many tears of the orphaned stained the soil as the blood of the slain.

Anybody who couldn't make the trip who fell down due to exhaustion were executed, anybody who lagged behind the rest were executed, anybody who tried to help up those who collapsed were executed, and some were just executed at the thrill of watchmen. Soldiers merciless impaled or bludgeoned to those who resisted. One form of the enjoyment for Etrurian calvary was to ride up to the side of the road, aside the marching prisoners, and stick out their swords to see how many of the prisoners they could behead in one sitting. Stopping for anything was equivalent to a death sentence at the hands of these merciless monsters in soldier's clothing, whom would plunge their weapons in those foolish to hold up the line. In the minds of these jailers, these captives were not even people deserving humans rights, and therefore, fair game for whatever demented sport the etrurians had in mind.

With these visions forever burned into his mind, Mark's righteous anger grew to become absolute loathing of these men. Malice, which went deeper than humanity, and rivaled that of Formiitis's hatred of the Sacred Stones, was all he could feel. The arrogance and utter disregard for human life was overwhelmning, and yet, he had always known such things happened in war. Being aware of such atrocities and seeing them with your own eyes, and to even live through it, were things altogether different. In the end, Mark's realism was insufficient to prepare him for the stark reality before his very eyes.

Enduring more abuses, rapes, murders, and braving the roughly forty-five mile march without any sustenance or rest, the prisoner caravan arrived at their destinition with a not so negligible amount of casualities on the way. Their location was that of a makeshift port currently in use by the etrurian expeditionary forces to ship in troops and much valued supplies for the war effort. Given a meager amount of stale bread and fetid water, the prisoners ate this as though it was their last meal prior to execution. Waiting in that port in for the next few days with little rein to anything, not even talking amongst captives, was excruciating enough, but nothing in comparison to the second portion of the journey to Fort Severe.

Waiting for a few days, the ship to carry to their abyssmal and final destination. Being forced into the hull, the hostages were chained together in strings from starboard to portside facing the vessel's aft. Sitting in that dark ship hull was by far the worst portion of the trip. There weren't any appointed places to relieve one's self and no one was allowed to move around, so naturally one would be forced do so in their place. The overpowering smell wafting in the air was torture in itself. So much so that the tactician could hardly get any sleep between the odor and rocking of the ship often resulting in vertigo of many passangers. The unsanitary conditions, joined with lack of nourishment and rest, would later cause many of the enfeebled to die of either infection or pathogens.

An enternity passed and the voyage went. Mother Nature seemed incline to making the journey more of an unpleasant by throwing typhoons in the vessel's directions. Enthralled by the aspect of being able to move about and vacate this hellhole, the defeated became the rejoicers and let out a collective woop at being freed from this god-forsaken hull. Their happiness would serve to prove how temporary human satifaction was. Once they evacuated the ship and set foot on the beach head they were immediately cuffed with shackles, reminding them that they were still enslaved.

They saw looming in the distance Fort Severe, a fortress which served with the duel purpose of a prison, an architectual reminder to Etruria's supremacy and ambitions. To those standing on the beach head, all it seemed like was a harbinger of their doomed and life of forced servitude here on out.

**-Takes in death breath- **

**Finally chapter two is completed! For some reason that seemed harder to write than the first one. My condolences if there of those out there who feel is it of lesser quality than the first, but between school, work, personal life, and my own exercise regiment, I don't have much time to work on these projects. Even though I work part time, my supervisor thought it would be a good idea to assign me eleven hour work shifts four days a week. Nothing against working, it's what seperates us from the bums, but you could say it makes any sort of leisure nonexistent except on the weekends.**

**For those of you who feel this story was excessive and coming off as dreary in portraying soldier bruality, I do not do it for the sake of doing it. I'm not some wishy-washy hippie who hates the military and everything it stands for. I felt like that it would take something drastic - real drastic to alter Mark's outlook. And Mark's world is only starting too plummet. Hopefully, the violence was able to compensate for the lack of explicit fighting scenes.**

**(1) I don't mean to have Athos as coming off as a simpering oldman just as byproduct of the subject he and tactician are scratching. There were worse ways he could of came off, which I am thankful I avoided.**

**(2) Helispunt Death March is an allusion to the historical Bataan Death March circa World War 2. I didn't make up these human rights violations in my own mind.**

**(3) I'm not sure if "Subjugation Wars" is canon to refer to Etruria's invasion of the Western Isles, but I saw the name in another fanfiction called Hammer of the Terrascars, so I'll borrow the name for my own use. Props to Servant of GOD if it's his original theme. By the way, you guys really out to read his stuff if you haven't. Truly the standard for tactician-centric fanfics.**


	3. Guilt By Righteousness

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Whilst reading other works on this section I became painfully aware of a folly of mine, namely that I haven't employed the use of my own creative writing muse. In order to honor this noble tradition, I'll do just that and introduce FE's most eccentric mage, Lute.

**Lute: "AdCon has seen my clearly superior abilities and chosen me over lesser muses."**

**Riiiiiiiight, that or I couldn't afford the going rates for some of these other muses. Can you believe that son-of-a-bitch Volke wants me to pay him five hundred gold per word?! First, I can't afford to mint gold, secondly, I don't deal with any sort of currency not imprinted with the image of an American President.**

**Despite having new artwork released, FE8 has no sort of relevance since it does not any scheduled sequels in the foreseeable future, rendering any character from that genre in low demand and within my price range. That's where you come in, mage woman.**

**Lute: "That is an absolutely horrid thing to say! My abilities far exceed monetary stipends and you're privileged to have my commentary. And "mage woman?" Please, AdCon, do you want me to cast fire on your head?"**

**I'm lucky to be graced with your presence because I'm paying you to! If you aren't satisfied what I'm selling then I could always sell those physics and calculus books on EBay.**

**Lute: "Let's not jump the gun. There's no intrinsic value on knowledge."**

**What I'd like to know is what some pompous magic wench, from a videogame based in the Medieval Era no less, would want with diagrams on the Teller-Ulam Hydrogen Bomb. Seems awfully suspicious and not the "I-think-my-girlfriend's-cheatin'-on-me" suspicious. I mean suspicious as far as Bohemian Grove's concerned. **

**Well enough with my tangent. Just read the disclaimer.**

**Lute: "Now for the disclaimer: AdCon doesn't own Fire Emblem or any of its characters...and certainly not me, despite what he'd like to believe. One more thing, whenever AdCon writes something in italics it means it's one of the character's flashbacks."**

**Conquest of Elibe: ****Chapter 3**

_**"Concentrated power has always been the enemy of liberty." **_

**- Ronald Reagan **

_--_

_For Eliwood's Elite fighting day and night had become second nature. Given the lore of their foes being either assassins or inhuman constructs, they were on constant watch with very scarce moments of rest. So frequent were their battles that times of leisure between skirmishes seemed to become unnatural in themselves. After witnessing the death of his Father at the hands of Nergal, Eliwood and his followers retreated to the only place of reprieve, Castle Pherae. _

_It was a late hour and the majority of the group found solace in slumber, with a exceptional few still awake either due to anxiety or reflections. Mark was among the awake, contemplating everything that had transpired. If he wasn't able to save of the life Marquess Pherae then how could he guide the rest of these brave men and women in the days ahead? One of the main objectives of this quest was to rescue Elbert from the clutches of the elusive Black Fang, yet Mark failed his employers by not achieving that goal. Doubt beginning to manifest itself in his heart, the tactician tried to lesson the burden of guilt by walking to melancholy halls of the castle keep. _

_The castle itself was a subtle nuance between spartan accommodations and a few choice decorations. Other, more vain rulers excessively taxed their subjects to finance their extravagant furnishings, but so strong were the virtue of the castellans of Pherae that her people were spared this abusive central power. Within the castle's vast halls were suits of armor formerly worn by revered knights of Pherae, reminding all the honor bestowed upon those patriots who either completed or fell in service of their canton. In additions to these lifeless husks were tapestries and portraits. Within the last century, many of the lost humanities and sciences, rekindled by knowledge imparted by transcripts from the ancients, were being rediscovered by skilled laborers from artisan to scholar to philosopher, art being among them. Painters were now using more refined tints of coloring and employing more geometrical deepness to their pieces, giving the optical illusion of third dimensions and pictorial enhancement._

_The tactician stopped his pacing and took a moment to look over a coat of arms hanging from the wall while recalling the story behind the founding of Pherae itself. When that war of godless violence known as the Scouring was concluded and all the Eight Legends went their separate ways, Roland settled in what was now modern Ostia. Generations later his descends grew considerably as did their disagreements, one such disagreement quickly became a blood feud between the iconoclasts and loyalists. What sparked this war were the iconoclasts, whom believed that the reverence of Roland as a patron founder bordered apotheosis and a clear violation to the of the established church's monotheism. When tensions approached the boiling point and negotiations to reform the traditions of Ostia broke down, insurrections broke out. After a long series of skirmishes, the loyalists finally prevailed and the remaining iconoclasts were either banished from the domain or left on their own accord to settle the unknown regions that were now the contemporary fiefdoms in Lycia. In those times, Pherae was a lawless area presided over by bandit warlords. When the a throng of iconoclasts arrived they did not receive a warm welcome from the regional powers. Hostilities broke out and a fierce battle to determine the fate of the land followed. Eventually, the iconoclasts were able triumph this time by bringing with them the tactics, weaponry, and warrior ethos of Ostia. These tales were all illustrated by the symbolic pictures of the coat of arms along with the ruling house's motto "By right of passage, the purveyors of righteousness," embroidered on the bottom._

_"What a world," muttered the tactician. The reviled dissenters of Ostia soon became the vaunted liberators of Pherea. _

_His melancholy somewhat lifted, the strategist continued his rounds hoping to clear his head further occasionally stopping to take in the scenery. Walking within the royal courtyard, Mark soon found himself approaching a distraught Eliwood. Eventually he would have to face his employer and answer for his incompetence by not averting the death of the one man who was the cause for their initial quest. Feeling extremely at ill ease, Mark shifted in the spot he was standing, opening his mouth and trying to raise his voice to alert Eliwood to his presence, but only to find he didn't have the breath to carry on the message. Several attempts later, the tactician decided to clear his throat in place of oral conveyance to catch the Marquess's attention. Forced out of his mourning, Eliwood turned to face to person who approached. _

_Weakly smiling to hide any bereavement, the Marquess greeted the tactician in his usual pleasantness, albeit one which was obviously a facade to conceal his own sadness._

_"Hello, Mark. So you're still awake?"_

_"Yes," the tactician answered scanning his mind for the best way to articulate what needed to be said._

_"It seems I've been deprived of any sleep one could get. Eliwood, listen, this may be a difficult thing to discuss, but I'm a firm believer in manning up to one's responsibilities. That being said, it is my fault for your father's death. Had I been a better commander and friend, I wouldn't of been so indolent in my own duties ...then perhaps your late father would be standing with us. I understand if you wish if you resent me for these recent turn of events."_

_Eliwood took in these words with a cloud growing on his brow. Turning to the side, and looking down at the cobblestone path as though it was the most interesting thing in the world, the marquess vehemently proclaimed_

_"Mark, there is plenty of blame to go around, but it would do us no good to dwell on such things. No, my father's death lies at the feet of solely one man, and you're not him. You have always considered our lives when making your strategies. You're someone who we trust and look up to. So don't be as hard on yourself over this."_

_The tactician still felt somewhat at fault, though relieved that his friend did not consider him the catalyst. Eliwood's expression softened as quickly it lit up and he slouched down in a bench; hunched over to continue his reflections. Mark closed his eyes and sighed aloud before he lazily seated himself next to his friend and benefactor. Eliwood broke the silence with questions Mark knew were long in the making. _

_"Mark, do you know Bern well?"_

_"Somewhat, though I am loathed to admit that it's nothing more than cursory, so no."_

_Eliwood took this in briefly and responded._

_"No, nor do I... Nothing more than I've heard at the court," as though trying to phase his next sentence apologetically for prying, Eliwood continued, "I'm sure that, with all of your travels, you know more than I."_

_"I am not omniscient, much to my dismay. I did outline all this in my resume?" facetiously said the tactician._

_"By the way, Mark, where were you born? Before you met Lyndis in Sacae, where were you? If it's difficult to speak about, you needn't worry. It's just that we've been together for so long, and I really know almost nothing about you. If you don't mind won't you tell me about yourself? I would like to learn more about you and your life." _

_This was archetypical of Eliwood, always considerate of others even when he had to deal with his own personal tragedies. Mark looked up at the starry sky wondering if this could all be avoided, but decided against shying away from the question and with a smirk forming on his lips._

_"I suppose I owe you a back story, eh?" Eliwood nodded at this with all attentiveness._

_"My country of origin is Bern, actually. I was born to an ignoble thane with little renown, which explains my own lack of renown when I tell others my surname. As is custom in these times..." Mark pointed upward to the sky in order to convey the idea of the present "...I was enrolled in a monastery to became a monk, myself being the youngest son and with no hereditary claim to my father's position. Anyways, I studied for a number of years and received quite an extensive education at that abbey. This is where my interest in military science, engineering, and architecture manifested, as well as where I learned to cast Luminous Magic(I.E. light magic)."_

_Mark took a breath before resuming his monologue._

_"I was inexplicably expelled from the abbey, though the head of the monastery told me he believed I was better suited for other pursuits. I personally suspect it had to do with my... other gift." _

_"Other gift?" Eliwood resounded with an all-too-curious tone._

_"Surely you've wondered how I'm able to telepathically maintain communications?" Eliwood heard these words echoing in his mind, wordlessly spoken by Mark in order to enforce his point._

_"Well...yes, but I always assumed it was some form of sorcery."_

_"Perhaps, but you have noticed none of the other spell casters in our party can do this? I will admit; however, that I have read in some tomes a form of magic with very similar effects...I believe it was called Seid Magic(1)? No matter, it allows me to not only mentally speak with individuals, but to feel their active emotions such affection, hate, anger, sadness, et cedera. You can see how this would be beneficial in a battle where I can monitor the morale of the enemy and my own troops."_

_"As for what I did prior to meeting Lyn: a number of things. I did odd jobs here and there to sustain myself such as tutoring, curating, and even a stable hand at one point. Sorry if my back round is not as grandiose as you expected," the tactician said almost a little ashamed to not live up the rumors the company at been giving him. _

_Eliwood retorted to the last part of Mark's speech in the same manner a teacher would console a pupil who has confided that they're mentally inferior._

_"I suppose we all have our lot in life - whether big or small - everyone serves their purpose. __Anyways, Mark, have you ever considered undertaking some sort of bigger endeavor in life?"_

_"Why yes I have, but nothing you'd find interesting, milord," the tactician replied wearing a mock-Matthew grin._

_"Mark, of course I'd be interested!" emphatically replied the red-haired lord._

_"Well, alright. At one interval I was considering write a book, two in fact."_

_"What would of been the subjects discussed?"_

_"The first would detail all the knowledge I've gleaned from my combat experience and would particularly deal with my own theories regarding asymmetrical warfare. Along with the aforementioned topic, it would encompass various design for some prototype weapons, siege engines, and tactical formations and strategies along with some running commentary on respective nations and their strengths."_

_"My second novel...(Eliwood noticed that Mark was now more than ever feigning a Matthew-esque smirk)...would illustrate some of the sexual techniques I've picked up in my travels. Brothels make an ideal place of study for this subject."_

_The silence created from the last part of monologue seemed like a few minutes before both Eliwood and Mark burst out in laughter. No one was nearly as upfront with him as the tactician had just been, save Hector, and it was refreshing to have another person not confined by formalities of social etiquette(2)._

_"Whatever happened to writing that last one?"_

_"Don't know. Guess I got so bogged down by my work that I wasn't able to complete naught but a few chapters of it," with another mischievous grin on his face, Mark began nudging Eliwood in the ribs in his jocund tone._

_"Why so interested all of a sudden, huh? Looking to use some of the outlined maneuvers on a certain teal-haired lass?"_

_"T-that's quite enough!" Eliwood stammered clearly embarrassed by his compatriot's bluntness and Mark enjoying the bashfulness he got out of Eliwood. Perhaps a little too much like Hector._

_"Sorry, milord, guess I pried alittle too hard." Mark got up to stretch and yawned to indicate his own drowsiness._

_"Anyways, I think I'll get to bed. By the way, could you spare me one boon favor, Eliwood?" The tactician asked Eliwood in between yawns doing his best to sound like Sain._

_"What?"_

_"Could you not repeat the last of our little dialogue with Lyn. She'd most likely kill me being the little feminist she is," Mark stated still yawning and flexing his ached extremities._

_With the tables turned, Eliwood smiled._

_"Well, at least I have something to hold over your head now."_

_Now it was Mark's turn to pout but desisted once he saw that his efforts to lighten the mood of his employer were successful. Beginning to walk off to his quarters, Mark turned his head to speak to Eliwood in a more serious tone._

_"We'll likely be in for more conflict in the days to come. That being said, it would be sagacious for you to get some rest soon."_

_"There's still things that need my attention. My father's death has been hard on my mother._

_"Ah, I guess it's nice to still have a mother."_

_"Why? Did yours perish?"_

_"Naw, she ran off once she met a nice stable boy," the tactician waved over his shoulder as he was walking in the opposite direction of the Pheraen Lord. Eliwood couldn't help but chuckle at the strategist's inscrutable sense of humor. Truly an odd fello was their group's staff officer, and yet blessed to have his insights._

_With images of his deceased father, legions of unfeeling constructs, and the death of those he cared for Eliwood rose to his feet with renewed vigor and swore and oath before his forefathers that night._

_"Father, I'll avenge your death and restore balance to this land!"_

_--_

Those memories seemed nothing more than a fanciful dream to Mark now. His current predicament, ensuring that nothing pleasant would be re missed from it, promised nothing more than tribulations from hence forth. The grass was truly greener on the other side. What he would of given to be out of this situation and back with family and friends, even situations which seemed like the most undesired, to be delivered from this hellish scenario. Hoping against all reason for any form of deliverment, the tactician silently prayed for divine intervention to any god or daemon that deigned to listen to his pleas, alas, no saving grave came for the him. Being resigned to his current fate, the tactician steeled himself for the things to come.

"Alright slags! Get the hell up that beach head and be quiet about it!"

That was the cue for the prisoners to resume marching toward the fortress. The arduous journey was coming to a close, but what awaited them was far worse by degrees. Passing the beach line and heading toward a stone road direct toward Fort Severe, Mark heard the collective moans and whispers of the weak-hearted as they neared the fort itself. The crowing of ravens as they sored the sky above was akin to any executioner's bell, perhaps one would of been appropriate for this time. As they came closer, the prison stood out of the ground like the head of a mythological beast waiting to swallow up any who ventured too close. Its old and dark masonry contrasting against the bright sky behind it as though someone had thrown a bucket of black paint on a canvas illustrating a beautiful landscape. No one in their right mind would of ever approached the monolith, but fear of death forced those under Etrurian yoke to enter its grim halls.

The lead escort, as the convoy travailed the ante-chamber of the fort, gesticulated a sign to the sentinel guarding the entrance who immediately step aside to allow the group passage. The wooden and iron-wrought door opened to allow the group further incursion. An enternity of winding and dreadful corridors were passed before the captive group began to diminish, each one going to a predetermined cell block within the vast dungeon. All that could be seen from Mark's perspective was how confined he was from the prison's grated windows, to its reinforced doors, from the barred walls. Finally, Mark and few other of the more despisedoffenders were forced into the deepest bowels of the prison for their respective crimes against the state of Etruria. The tactician saw that they were standing infront of an iron-framed door where which the head guardsman tapped it four times with the butt of his spear to indicate new arrivals. The door opened and Mark was roughly forced through the threshold by his captors. The door they just entered closed behind them with a sibilant scream of its hinges. He was in a hell on earth - the air he breathed was now longer free but pestilential and diluted, all the only sound that could be heard was the clanking of metallic boots as they patrolled the halls.

--

At the highest floor in the keep housed the administrative portion of the fort. In a dim chamber with the only source of illumination being a cathedral-shaped window a meter off the floor, sat the fort's captain and warden at the commissary's desk, though he was in informal apparel having left his military attire on the wall's rack, he commanded an atmosphere of authority that dared any to approach him idlely. Reviewing the envoys straight from the capital and attending responsibilities within his realm of jurisdiction, the captain could feel indignant disgust rising in his sternum, all he could do to try and pacify this sentiment was study the documents before him and distract from the current emotion. He had been been passed over for the more prestigious roles within the military more than once - and it angered him irrevocably. To think someone of his military mettle had been relegated to the less than glamorous job of guarding Etrurian's prisoners of war. The idea of being stationed at this backer water post was enough to make his blood boil, but by hell - the thought of those less competent than himself getting all the glory in the field was absolutely infuriating.

To say he lacked empathy would be not only be an understatement but a platitude. At the end of the day all, he cared about were his own standing on the latter of power and any means to reach the top were not beneath him.

An underling entered the chamber, opposite the commissary's desk, to present the daily report he had sp done ceremoniously every other day. Saluting his superior he informed the captain of the fort's status before finishing with a final report.

"The new prisoners have arrived, sir."

With the same apathy is always wore, the captain raised his eyes from the document to the man before him.

"Is that all?"

"It is, sir."

"Then you're dismissed, corporal," the captain said as he waved off his subordinate.

The corporal turned on his heel and exited his master's post. After his departure the captain rose out his seat and walked over to gaze out of a nearby window overlooking the fort's courtyard. Arms folded behind his back, the man resumed his train-of-thought of how he would garner the recognition of his own superiors. Truly Etrurian nobles were a fickle bunch to please and in particular his lord, Count Roartz, oh the rumors flying around did not help the captain's expectations one bit. Still, he would have to persist and with patience good things would come to meet him, even if he had to crack a few skulls...

--

Mark was led to his cell by a female gendarmes. The escort was followed by her captive, who led him to a cell far beneath sea level, whose oldened masonry and naked walls seemed stained with the anguish of those who previously inhabited it(not to mention the blood); a candle fixed on a table luminated the place scarcely, and divulged the features of his jailer, a girl no older than seventeen with plain looks and a defeated visage, as thought he very fort itself siphoned the hopes and dreams of those within its interior. Perhaps this lass was prettier in her earlier days, but now was not the case. What the tactician could discern was that she had sunken eyeballs with sags of black underneath her eyes indicating many sleepless nights, as well as an absent expression on her face. What attractiveness the girl might have possessed had long died the moment she discovered where she would be stationed.

"This is your chamber for the now. There is water and bread for you to eat as well as sackcloth to sleep on," she recited in monotone. Before Mark could inquire anything the girl blew out the candle and exited the chamber. Mark was left all alone with only his mind to ponder his current state of affairs with nothing but the sound of the walls dripping with water.

He was alone - utterly alone and way from those he cared about and any who might have given a damn about him. All he could feel was lie on his make-shift bed as the cold air bared down upon his chest as though it were the Spectre of Death squeezing the very life from his bosom. All through the night and early morning he could not sleep occasionally getting up to pace his cell like a caged animal, gnashing his teeth, shuffling his head with his hands, and panting as though he were in cardiac arrest. The only reason he was here was because he did the right thing! Helping those in need, and yet he was not rewarded for it but punished! Oh why couldn't he of just left those peasants to their fate!? What was he thinking? He had been trained to rationally think things through - did he honestly believe Etruria would allow his deeds to go unpunished? And what of his friends? What would they do once it became common knowledge that the Superb Mind had disappeared without a trace? Would any care enough to try and find him or inquire of his fate? These questions were enough to send him furiously throwing himself down on his sackcloth bed.

The next morning the door to his chamber was opened. In his cell walked four soldiers who enclosed Mark within a square formations.

"That him?" One of the soldiers calling to the man opposite him.

"Aye, indeed it is. Killed three of our boys, that one," responded the man

"Perfect! We haven't had any fun since the last up and died. Seize him and bring him to the 'pleasure room.''

As soon as those words left the guard's mouth Mark found himself beset by the arms of the soldiers. Thrashing against his captors and elbowing one in the face, Mark resisted with any ounce of strength he could muster. The tactician became like a maddened beast riled by mistreatment at the hand of its captors and acting accordingly by striking any assailable body part that presented itself. Responding to his companion's pained grunt, one of the soldiers struck Mark in his stomach still sore from his previous wound. Knocked to the floor gasping for breath; the tactician found the soldier's spearhead touching his temple.

"If you'd like to have your brains schwered then by all means resist us,' sadistically said the man not at all hiding the satisfaction he'd get from executing this prisoner.

Mark complied and peacefully followed his tormentors to whatever fate awaited him. Following his jailers down a corridor a few moments the tactician could smell fresh blood in air as though he were walking through a slaughterhouse. It was enough to make a common man gag, but he was determined not give such pleasure to his jailer. Walking through a maze of halls and no end in sight, the party stopped in front of a large, blackened iron door roughly three-by-one meters in dimensions. A pair of the soldiers pulled on two ringed knobs beneath one another with all their might, after a few moments the pair were successful in prompting the door to begin opening.

What sight greeted Mark as he entered that spacious chamber made him visibly pale. All manner of torture devices such as the judas chair, the brazen bull, the iron maiden, knee splitters and many more were present in that place. The floor, the walls, and the various instruments hanging from the wall were splattered with blood indicating recent fatalities. It didn't take Mark's keen intellect to know what coming and he began to plea to his captors for a more merciful end.

"Sirs, as a living, breathing creature of flesh and blood, I entreat you and appeal to your humanities not to undergo such horrendous acts! Surely any beings created of God(3) would not be capable of such an act of cruelty!

Mark might as well have been asking the walls to start weeping. Acting as though they didn't hear him, the soldiers moved to apprehend Mark who attempted to flea that place but was only knocked half-unconscious by the butt of one of the man's spears. Having his body dragged, the tactician found himself forced inside a tube just large enough for him to fit. The tube was lined with crocodile teeth-like spikes and compressed in such an agonizing way that it rendered any inside immobile. The tube itself was shaped in such a way so only the victim's face and feet were visible. Beneath the tube was a fire, in which the torturer could either choose to stoke or not to add to the pain factor accompanied with the initial compression.

The tormenting and harrowing sensation that Mark felt exceeded any pain he had ever experienced previously. The tube's spikes digging into every portion of his body and the heat of the metal were enough to sent him into a howling frenzy of pure pain. Occasionally the torturer would come by to slash Mark across his exposed face leaving disfiguring scars. The tactician could feel his rib cage and chest cavity begin to collapse. His organs felt like they were being stir fried while still alive. Every sharp spike prodding his body felt like thousands of knives being forced into him. Why were they doing this to him? What had he done to warrant such treatment. Was there any practical reason to force him to endure this torment?

The torturer continued his methods and stopped briefly to try and force a confession out of Mark as being a Caledonia insurgent. Such attempts availed him nothing due to Mark's own innocence, but that didn't matter to him. Reaching for the wall, the torturer extracted a pair of incisors used for plucking various body parts. With an all-mighty tub, he ripped off the tactician's small toe off his foot.

Mark had reached his limit, between the stabbing, the fire, and mutilation he couldn't take it anymore and thus passed out due to his pain threshold being exceeded. A miracle in itself that the ordeal didn't kill him, but a curse in disguise since he'd have to endure many other forms of torture in the days to come. The guards dragged his limp body and tossed his seemingly lifeless corpse back into his cell and tossed it in like a disregarded piece of trash.

--

**Lute: "And that concludes chapter three! Not so bad to write, was it?"**

**AdCon: "Hehe, I guess not, but still the something is irking me about writing this."**

**Lute: "Which is...?"**

**AdCon: "This site seems to be doing everything within its power to piss me off. I would of posted this much earlier had not my word processor decided to be evil. Untop of that, whenever I put the finishing touches on this chapter and hit "Save Changes" the thing would say I need to log in, which would delete any changes I made, even after doing so earlier in that day.**

**Lute: "You managed to finish it now. So why still bitter? Whenever I get stressed out I just read my books."**

**AdCon: "Not all of us are as emotionally resilliant as yourself. Some of us are hardasses who hold grudges. Anyways about the turn this story is taking...**

**Lute: "Within a few chapters hopefully the whole motif will take a turn for a more light-hearted atmosphere. AdCon isn't enjoying having to write such depressing scenes but realizes it's an imperative component in telling of Mark's eventual morality decline.**

**AdCon: "Anyways I guess I should explain the footnotes."**

**(1) Eh, Mark has latent abilities for Seid magic? Could this mean he might have some Heron ancestry? Just to tell you guys, I'll use cameos from other Fire Emblem games throughout this story. Another example would be the Formiitis comment I made in chapter 2, but don't worry. Although I intend to have intersecting themes from other games they won't be significant enough to change this story out of the realm of Blazing Sword and Sword of Seals.**

**(2) For this portion I'm trying to be as true as possible to Eliwood's character, but I'm making some minor tweaks, namely that Eliwood doesn't have such a stick up his ass and can actually laugh at some of the tactician's more crude jokes. For all you Eliwood fangirls who feel I tarnished the personality of your beloved bishie - I don't want to hear it.**

**I'll also attempt further flashbacks in order to lighten the mood between the harsh present for Mark.**

**(3) And for those of of you wondering if they believe in God in Elibe - yes. In fact, in the support conversations among characters in The Sword of Seals they directly mention God. This is the case in the support conversations between Oujay and Lilinia, in addition to Ingrene and Saul. **

**Why they don't mention God in the English release of the Blazing Sword? Who can say - I guess Elmine was less of an offensive figure to have Lucius pray to, though I have my hypothesis that Nintendo in North America didn't want to offend the sensibilities of ACLU parents.**

**I did bother to update my profiles for those of you interested enough to check it out. Thanks for reading.**


	4. Falling Down

**Lute: Well look who decided to grace us with his presence. Have you been to busy, as you say, "wanking it to teh interwebz pr0n," to bother updating your story?**

**AdCon: You know, you're the ideal paragon for womahood, considering you're just a pretentious and condescending ice queen.**

**Lute: Why thank you for the kind words.**

**AdCon: Errmm...that wasn't a compli - nevermind. Anyways, for those wondering why I've taken my sweet time updating know that ALOT of shit is going on right now. So much so that the most I could do in the realm of writing was drop an occasional review. **

**Lute: Oh, so you weren't lax in your commitment and had circumstances out of your control barring you from updating? I've heard some pretty feeble excuses in my lifetime, but that has to be the most utter dogsh-**

**(AdCon has set Lute on mute)**

**AdCon: I'm back and can hopefully finish this story arc soon enough. Give or take, it'll last about another chapters after this one. I've been wrestling with the prospect of posting alternate endings in the same fashion of certain RPGs where the character can either have a good or evil conclusion such as Jade Empire and Knights of the Old Republic. So drop me some feedback on that idea and I'll see which way to go.**

**As for you, Lute, I'll unmute you and expect that you read the disclaimer without any snide commentary. If you fail this requisite, then I'm going to drop the almighty banhammer on your ass, considering I have mod status(not really) and you're only a regular poster.**

**Lute: AdCon doesn't own Fire Emblem or any of its characters. If he did it would be in some sort of alternate universe where he owned Namco as well as Intelligent Systems. If that were the case, he - undoubtedly, would've put Hector and Ashnard in Soul Calibur 4.**

**AdCon: One more thing folks - if the characters in my story start sound like Karl Marx, Heidegger, or Nietzche it's not necessarily my own opinion. I already have my mind made up on the issues of politics and don't intend to use this fanfic as my own soapbox. **

**Conquest of Elibe: Chapter 4**

**"Tyrants have always some slight shade of virtue; they support the laws before destroying them." **

**-Voltaire **

Mark awoke from his stupor shortly after being tortured, he had been better, but at least he was alive as well as having his sanity in tact. The method of torture he was just subject was the most physically painful experience(He's passed a kidney stone at a early age) he'd ever endured. The guards put him only long enough to suffer minor wounds, but not long enough to outright kill him. The reason for doing this was most likely to show the domination they held over the tactician's head. How whether he lived or died were entirely their own whims.

He sat upright and discovered his extremities were covered by grotesque welts that would cause him major pain for the weeks to come. Most of all, his small toe had been forcefully ripped off, which resulted in him not being able to stand upright without tumbling backwards. He was relieved to know it had been tended to while he was incapacitated. Maybe some of these soldiers had remnants of humanity left in them.

Being unable to stand properly, the tactician sat down in a corner of his cell content to wait. He wondered what many of his former friends were doing then. Would they think any less of him if they witnessed his breakdown prior to his session with the crocodile tube(1)? Most of all, what was she doing? The woman he would of betrophed had fate permitted it?

"Bastilla(2)...," he muttered with the both tenderness and reverence. The woman he had determined to settle down with. She was a commoner but her serenity surpassed that of a monk who's spent years in ascetic meditation. Her beauty was something that seemed inspired of the cosmo in all their splendor, but most of all she comprehended or at least knew the tactician better than anyone who's had dealing with him.

Prior to his crusade against the Basilisk's Glance(3), he yearned - craved adventure for all his glory and knowledge, but by the end of his travels he was jaded of it all. Two years had Eliwood's Elite spent combating Nergal, thwarting him at every turn and their campaign proved successful. What Mark gained was not only knowledge, but also maturity barring his relatively young age. Though it was only a few years, it felt like a milenia to him. His desire was only to live a rural lifestyle away from the fires of war and free from the stench of politics, maybe even have a big family and live the rest of his days as a nobody instead of the sought after superb mind.

In truth, he always had eyes for Lyn, but he doubted if Lyn ever had eyes for him. He could hardly blame her, he did, after all, have certain flaws that placed wedges in between them. She was noble both in blood and action. Always rushing to save others from trouble. He preferred the approach of biding time. She only thought of others while he was concerned with his own skin. He didn't see himself as uncaring or even selfish, but realistic. In the staff officer's mind, the world would be a much better place if people were less interloping. Very few would empathize with his outlook and wrote him off as a cynic and uncaring toward others.

The way he saw it, by taking on the problems of others unconditionally you deprived them of any mental or spiritual growth they would gain from solving their own dilemma. This was in sharp contrast to the chivalric idealism and Sacaen honor the lords maintained.

Indeed, he did recall a rather heated debate between himself and Hector.

--

"_Say, uncle Canas, this book you gave me is really something," chirped Nino_

_While polishing his monocle and sporting quite a please grin, Canas replied with the same scholarly enthusiasm he showed when talking about anything to do with academics._

_"Of course, little Nino, it's as I said, books open us too a whole new realm of possibility. I'd say it's like delving into a new world altogether. The worl...," Before he could contiue his lecture the sky filling the campsite reverberated with the sound of shouting Hector._

_Striking the table with his gauntlet-clad fist and face glaring with anger, the young lord played the role of brute some of Eliwood's Elite wrote him off as._

_"That's a load of molarchy, Mark, and you know it!"_

_Seeing that various members of their group were peaking in the command tent to investigate the cause of Hector's yelling, Mark determined he would neither be intimidated nor made to look like the bad guy._

_"It is as I said, in order to defeat the Black Fang we need to divide their forces and give them free reign over some of the villages. This will give the delusion that we are too weak to intercept one contingent of their men, thus lulling them into a false sense of security. With that, we'll strike at the heart and watch the rest scatter."_

_"We're not talking chess pieces here, we're talking about human lives, you bastard1 Do you have any idea what those assassins will do to the townspeople once we decide let them do whatever the hell they want?!"_

_As though expecting this question to be prompted, Mark looked the young lord straight in the eyes before he rebutted._

_"It behooves you, young lord, to know your enemy's capability. Once you underestimate them you're as good as defeated. Blind siding the Black Fang is integral toward victory and if we don't allow a few sacrifices to be made then how can be stand before Nergal when we're too cowardly to reconcile the fact we can't have everything both ways."_

_"Hector, perhaps we could make a compromise," implored Eliwood, doing his best to pacify his friend._

_"No! I've had it up to here with this damn know-it-all. He treats us as like we're all expendable and on top of it all, he has no regard for human life!"_

_Hearing the murmurs of his troops outside, now it was Mark's turn to be upset not because it wasn't true but he couldn't be undermined in front those under his command._

_"You, who wouldn't last a single battle at my helm, have the goal to question my authority? Lecture me when you've been in my position. Preach to me when you make life altering decisions. Educate me when you make choices that will that will either save or condemn thousands to their death, but do not look down on me or impugn my integrity when you're ignorant of all the above. That is why it ultimately falls on my shoulders to make decisions and you... to be nothing more than a grunt mindlessly swinging his axe."_

_Whether it was the condescending way he said it or just his pure arrogance was something Hector himself wasn't sure set him off, but before anyone there to witness that spectacle could realize it, Hector marched over to the tactician and delivered a punch powerful enough to send him crashing to the ground._

_Prone on his back, the tactician raised his head, hand clasping his bloodied cheek, to see if the lord would strike again. The sight that greeted him was not an infuriated Hector aching with the desire to pound him to a bloody pulp. Standing in the same spot where he struck the tactician, the young Ostian lord stood there, clenching his fist, as firm and resolute as a rock column. _

_"Let that be a reminder, Mark, what we fight for. We fight for a continent free from Nergal's clutches. A world where its citizens do not fear death or oppression. If we achieve victory by sacrificing innocent people are we any better than Nergal himself"?_

_Not waiting for Mark to reply, Hector continued his train of thought._

_"What right would we have to be these people's savior if we'd just turn around and throw them at wolves' paws when it suits us? No, the reason we're here is the opposite and even you know that, Mark. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't it make us hypocrites to parade purity when we show the same callousness as the enemy we claim to be morally superior to?"_

_Still unused to the clarity that had swept him, (And slightly annoyed by the looks he was getting) Hector hesitated before leaving the tent to gather his own thoughts._

_Turning his head over his shoulder, Hector only glared at the tactician before concluding his rebuke._

_"As that bruise remains on your cheek let it remind you of why we're doing what we do. You're not Nergal and should not use the same underhanded tactics to get what you want."_

_Whether it was the spirit of Roland himself speaking through Hector or a latent wisdom belonging solely to the most honorable rulers was anyone's guess, but one thing was for sure, Hector showed a side he never showed before. It made a firm impression on everyone there; Mark included._

_This left everyone there, save a few people, absolutely dumbstruck. Silence as dead as the grave settled over the crowd there, the tactician decided to break the ice._

_"Who would of known below that exterior of a gruff and dimwited brawler is a wise and benign ruler?" Mark said as he wearily rose to his to feet._

_"And he's right, perhaps I should re access my strategy," smiled the strategist at the surprise of everyone there._

_Else on the outskirts of the camp, a lone Ostian lord sat on a large and rotten tree stump, staring at and continually closing and openning the fist he used minutes before to strike the group's pretentious tactician. He failed the notice the presence of a petite falcoknight watching him from the side of tall oak tree. _

_He wondered why he went from the temperament of rage to clarity in such a spontaneous way. It was akin to a raging flame transmuting into a sickle of ice. It made no sense in his mind and why all of a sudden he chose now to lash out at the tactician despite all the other times he followed Mark with an uncertain conscious._

_More importantly, would his older brother have frowned upon his earlier impulsive action or applauded him for sticking by his moral conviction? At this time he noticed someone was watching him from the shadows._

_"If you have something to say then come out and say it, instead of skulking in the shadows!" He barked at the silhouette of this unknown person._

_Florina, consistent with her timidness, let out an "eep" at being noticed and stood behind the tree only. Poking her head out, wondering if Hector was angry at her for not making herself known earlier, began to stammer an apology._

_"I-I-I'm sorry for...uh...w-watching you, Lord Hector."_

_Realizing instantly who was this mystery person was, Hector mentally kicked himself for shouting at the young woman._

_"That's alright. You don't need to apologize for being concerned. I did kinda go off on you when you didn't deserve it."_

_Seeing that she was still taking cover behind the tree, Hector decided to break the ice a little and invited her over to his current location. Several attempts later, Hector finally coaxed her into sitting next to him. _

_"You know, it makes it hard to talk to you when you're sitting practically half a mile away," Florina was trying her earnest to sit as far as possible from Hector due to slight intimidation she felt by all men, but nonetheless she scooted somewhat at his urging. _

_Mentally bracing herself for this moment, Florina decided to be the first to talk about what happened in the command tent earlier._

_"Lord Hector...what you said to Mark earlier...do you really mean what you said?"_

_Without thinking his answer, the Ostian lord flatly said, "Somewhat, though I probably was looking for something to hold over Mark's head," looking Florina squarely in the eye he proceeded to continue opening up "Do you think I was wrong somehow?"_

_Florina found herself nervous under the mighty lord's scrutinous gaze. No, she willed that she wouldn't falter now._

_"I think...," now she searched for the ideal way to phrase it, "...wrong to punch Mark, but right in what you said."_

_Turning away from the falcoknight and staring direct ahead at nothing in particular, Hector meditated on what Florina before he replied._

_"Yeah, granted Mark can be an arrogant horse's ass sometimes, I suppose he didn't warrant that. Still, when words will not suffice, the best way to convey what you mean is with force. I have been doing alot of thinking lately, and wonder if I'm worthy of ruling Ostia. All my life, I've been breezing through, doing little thinking and following my own personal desires. _

_"That's not true, Lord Hector, you've been fighting for a better tomorrow!"_

_Hector was a little taken aback how forceful little Florina had been in her assertion. _

_"You really think so?"_

_"Yes. I believe that someday you rule Ostia, and its people will proud to have such a strong and self-sacrificing ruler."_

_"Florina," Hector said in almost monotone._

_The falcoknight almost recoiled. She had talked out of place and was now about to endure one of Hector's infamous tirades. _

_"Thanks," was the only word she heard from Hector, spoken in such a smooth and calming manner that she was somewhat confused. Before she could inquire why he thanked her, she found that he wrapped one of his arms around her. She at first struggled to get free of his grasp but readily accepted the gesture of affection. She felt her heart begin to flutter and that the safest place in all the world was in the lord's loving embrace. She wanted to spent eternity with the man she loved, but instead settled for the rest the evening looking up at the stars that had inspired so many before them._

--

Mark's recollection was interrupted by the screams of some unfortunate soul subjected the torture chamber.

He did start to adopt a more interventionist approach after the experience with Eliwood's Elite, but still had a quantity of aloofness.

Irregardless, perhaps now wasn't the time to reminiscence about the past. Perhaps he should set his mind to the task of escaping this predicament.

He looked around his dreary cell and scoffed at the idea. His options and were few and his logical mind ruled out a number of them. All that remained were three alternatives: he'd either have to die, escape this prison(easier said than done), or appeal for amnesty from an Etrurian noble. The first one was out of the question since it defeated the purpose of wanting to flee. The second idea wasn't within the realm of possibility since he did lacked knowledge of the compound's layout, excluding the fact he possessed no means to even escape his cell. As for the third, where would he rendezvous with such a person? From what he could tell, they weren't hosting tea socials in any of the corresponding cells.

Mark, prior to dismissing the latter, realized he was acquainted with Lord Pent. Surely the Mage General himself would be able to grant him pardon, but even that seemed If only he could contact him somehow if only briefly. He'd have a number of things to say to the Mage General, none of which would be very boastful of Etrurian handling of their campaign.

On cue with train of thought, the jailer arrived to bring him his daily meal. She slided open a small grate cut-out of the cell's door to allow one to slide in a tray of food to the prisoner inside.

"Miss, I need you to do something for me," said Mark not at all hiding his urgentness.

The gendarmes looked up with a forlorn look still on her face.

"What is it?"

"I wish to speak this fort's captain."

"That is not possible," grimly replied the jailer before she stood up.

"Why not?"

"The captain does not see anyone without official business. You do not any with him, do you? Besides, it is against fort regulation."

"Then what is allowed?" Inquired Mark, clearly losing any bit of patience dealing with this witless guard.

"Better food, literature, and some recreation time if you can pay for it all."

"I lack the funds for any of those things. Your moronic soldiers purloined all my money!"

She shrugged and began to walk off. Mark watched as she exited the open doorway reached out to it as she closed it, frustration erupted as he cursed a blue-streak.

The next morning she returned to give the incarcerated tactician his breakfast of more moldy bread and fetid water. She noticed the man didn't speak a word to her and had her curiosity aroused.

"Is there a particular reason why you're pretending I'm not here?"

Mark still didn't answer his hostess.

"Brooding won't do anything except ravage your sanity in this...place," she implored clearly not wanting to deal with a loony inmate.

"I wish to petition the captain."

"I told you once already that could not be done. If you keep going on about that I'll have the soldiers tend to your discontent!"

"Hmm, maybe I'll be fortunate enough and they'll kill me."

What disturbed the jailer was not Mark's deathwish but how little he cared when he voiced it. This place may have relieved her of all energy and resolve, but not her compassion.

"Listen," she began in a more quiet tone, "If you behave yourself without causing trouble then maybe, just maybe the captain will grant your request. Whether he listens or not will be his decision, but you'll get your shot in the end."

Mark, clearly more uplifted raised his head.

"How long would I have to wait then?"

"Six months - no, perhaps a year or two."

"Surely you don't expect me wait that long in this hellhole!?"

"Lower your voice," she hissed.

Mark restrained his tone himself and followed with a more forceful voice.

"I have another offer for you; if you ever go to the capital I want you to deliver an oral recitation to the secretary of the Mage General: Lord Pent in my stead. Upon completion I will be released and will grant you two thousand gold mersaleses of my own fortune."

"If I did what you ask me and were found out I would be dishonorably discharged. My position pays a year triple what you offer me and I'm not willing to make that risk."

Now Mark noticed a discrepancy in which the jailer spoke. Clearly she was frightened of the prospect of upsetting her superiors and that gave Mark the perfect leverage.

If an eagle were capable of grinning at a dove foolish enough to fly within its territory it would be the exact smirk Mark was wearing.

"If you do not do as I ask then I will tell that you were speaking to me. A clear violation of the code of conduct. Are not jailers forbidden from so much as speaking to their prisoners? I wonder what they do - a hundred lashes or even a court martial, perhaps a dishonorable discharge?"

Eyes widening at the implication, the jailer could little but recoil backward as if the man she was speaking transformed into a gorgon.

"You can't! Do you know what that would mean for me if I was blacklisted from military service?! I wouldn't be able to feed my family if you do such a thing!"

"You needn't worry about me turning you in if you comply."

Shoulders slouched in defeat, the jailer kowtowed to her blackmailer.

Among his demands, Mark told her to bring him a piece of percel and an inkwell as well as instruction to deliver it to Lord Pent's estate next time she was on leave. He resented himself for forcing-gagging the girl into submission. When push came to shove he wouldn't of actually turned her in, but she didn't know that.

--

Pent seethed with disgust while sitting at his desk. To say he was stressed was an understatement, since he came back from quest with Eliwood's Elite he had been bogged down by the politics of Etruria. Namely, a fellow by the name of Roartz who sought to undermine his every initiative.

"That court will be the death of me! If those aristocrats had their way they'd let Etruria burn as long as they could still build their villas."

It was late at night and he should be getting rest, but his duty was more imperative than mundane affairs. There he sat at his desk, hands clasping his heads, contemplating ways to supersede the ruling of Roartz and all his cronies.

So engrossed with the proceedings of the recent that he failed to notice the figure of his wife, Countess Louise, enter his study.

Annoyed that her husband noticed her presence she cleared her throat in a tone indicated her husband was running on thin-ice.

"Dear, I know you're dedicated to your work and would sooner burn your entire library before neglecting it, but this is ridiculous! You've spent an entire evening moping over what happened at the king's court. If you do not get any rest the only thing you'll be confronting is a deadly illness."

Pent accepted the chastisement and regarded his wife's concern. He looked her over noting that despite the fact she was clearly livid and with child being several months pregnant, the night gown she wore only accentuated her beauty. Even with her crossed arms and lip pursed she was pleasant to the eyes.

"Of course, Louise, I'll be there shortly. They're just a few details I need to sort before I come to bed," he assured her. She left the room knowing that her husband was a man of his word.

As his wife left for a night's slumber another person entered his personal study. It was his butler carrying a piece of folded parcel.

"Excuse me, milord, but somebody left this message for you."

Pent stood up from his desk seemingly interested in the envoy, mentally asking himself what could be so dire that it needed to be conveyed so late at night. The Mage General eyed the document one more time before he spoke.

"Did this messenger say who the parcel is from or even it's contents?"

"I do not know, milord, but she seemed to be a soldier in service of his Majesty's army. She also refused to give her name but did stress that this document was for your eyes only. I complied with her request and did not read the message myself."

"Indeed? I'll take the document and see what it's about. You may return to your other duties, Gregor."

"Very well, sir," with a bow the butler left his master's presence.

Warily sitting back at his desk, Pent began to slowly unfold the piece of paper. He expected that it would contain some lude comments or threats from an unnamed political rival but his expectation were dispelled after he read the document firsthand. Setting the paper on his desk he began to pace his study in contemplative thought as though he had artistic mania.

"Damn him!" He shouted while slamming an open palm on his desk.

"Mark, you fool, of all the times to be captured you chose now!" Lord Pent was not prone to such outbursts and retained enough level-headedness to make the least high-strung envious, but his distress was understandable at the current circumstances.

He had no doubt that the letter was written by the hand of the staff officer. Not only because of the aesthetic handwriting, but the details it relayed were written down to the last detailed easily overlooked by those with limited observations.

"If I grant him amnesty I will first need to present my case before a tribunal. If I do that then it becomes public that I've been aiding and in betting a wanted man."

He could only shutter at the thought of how Lord Roartz and his cohorts would pounce on him for this. It was true that he had been helping Mark well before his capture, and that knowledge in itself was dangerous toward Pent's career. By knowingly aiding a fugitive, his future will be forfeit and subject to judicial scrutiny. The sentence for this action could be trumped up to treason, an offense avenged by capital punishment. And if his prosecutors are not successful in having him sentenced to death, they could just as easily have his noble status relinquished, in addition to all his assets and fortunes appropriated by the state.

"No, he has contributed to the security of Elibe, but not only that, he's more importantly a friend. There should be no hesitation in my mind what I must do."

Looking over the spacious room he was in, as though trying to find the answer to his dilemma in one of his many books, the Mage General could only weigh the pros and cons of each action.

If he condemned the tactician he would save his own skin. Inversely, if he saved Mark's life he'd forfeit his own life.

"By allowing Mark to pay for my indiscretion I would be damning myself. How would I answer Saint Elmine when she asks me why I allowed innocent man to die? Not only that, but how would I explain myself to my late mentor? What I am contemplating is morally reprehensible."

Looking down at his wedding ring, the question of how Louise would be effected by all this struck him like a kick to the groin.

All it took was the image of Louise, with babe, thrown into the streets and subject to the cruel world, to have him make up his mind.

With a heavy hand and even heavier heart, Pent began signing a warrant for the man who had just appealed for amnesty. By the time he finally finished writing the proclamation he was sweating profusely.

Lord Pent was a good man and loyal friend. He would have certainly put his head in the noose in exchange for the sake and wellbeing of a friend, but now when Louise would save the noose.

"No," The Mage General forcefully said as though trying to convince himself, "I am not some monster by doing this. If I granted Mark's request not only would I be damning my wife, but also the citizens of Etruria. If I go then who can say what burdens the people suffer under the heels of Roartz or his cabal?! I'm sorry, old friend, but you'll have to play the role of matyr. It's for the greater good."

He walked out of that room with self-resentment that he had not known before. He sought the comfort of his bed but sleep was something he would get this night and many nights following. One day, the entire continent would feel the harrowing consequences of Pent's action.

--

Mark sat in his cell day by day expecting for an officer, in the stead of Lord Pent, to arrive and release him from this shackles. To apologize for any inconveniences he's faced and to extent a heartfelt reparation. What came for him he'd never expect.

Instead of the stiff-lipped officer to order his release, what stopped in front of his cell block was fully armed unit of Etrurian soldiers.

"Open the door and bring the prisoner before me!" The commander barked to one of his underlings. Obeying the leader's command, one of the soldiers scurried to the cell lock with a key in hand. Grabbing him by one arm, another soldiers brought Mark before the commander.

"I'd say it's about time. Has Lord Pent deigned to finally release an old friend?" Mark said in a condescending but relieved manner. It was evident that he was overjoyed to be set free.

The soldiers only looked at eachother all them wondering if this man was as delusional as their ears had led them to believe.

Stepping forward, the commander regarded the tactician as though he were a psychiatric patient.

"Are you daft? We've come here with orders to bring you down to solitary confinement for the duration of your stay at Fort Severe."

"T-t-that's impossible! Did you not receive word from Lord Pent to sanction my release!? Why are you not releasing me then!?"

Taking a step forward and unravelling a formal document from his cuirass, the commander soon answer the befuddled tactician's question.

"Actually, we did receive word from Lord Pent. According to him, the man you're claiming to be has died recently. Lord Pent's agents uncovered his remains on the fringes of Etruria and suspects that he was assassinated by vengeful remnants of the disbanded Black Fang. He's given us words that we're to confine and execute the usurper claiming the identity of the superb mind. That means you."

Mark, for the first time in his life, was speechless. He was not angry at that moment, but flabbergasted, so much so that his brain seemed to reel from the shock of this sudden revelation. When one is struck in the back of the head with a blunt object they do not feel pain, but a numbness courses through their entire body deadening the senses. Pent's betrayal had the same effect.

"Seize him and make sure he is only fed by deaf mute so they can't be infected by his lies!"

Feeling the metal fingers of the soldier's gauntlets grabbing his arms, Mark senses finally returned.

He did not neither resisted nor voiced his outrage because he knew that would only lead to them more problems. He had no desire to withstand the torture chamber. He was confined to a windowless sub-basement of the fort where not a single soul resided, save the tactician himself. The level of restraint was greater here than his previous cell. Both his hands and feet were shackled to the wall severely limiting the amount of movement he had, in addition to the abysmal sanitary condition, the poison tipped arrows, that had subdued him at first, left many cracks and blemishes on his back, resulting in greater susceptibility to the organism modern medicine knows as Staphylococcus aureus, the cause of boils and many staph infections.

Within a period of a few days boils began to form on the strategist's back later becoming abscesses. So painful were these furuncles that he could neither lean against anything or lie on his back to get much needed rest. The shackles made it impossible for him to lay on either his stomach or side, thus, he was deprived of any sleep.

The only sounds that could be heard in the emptiness of Ford Severe's were Mark's ravings and blasphemies against whatever gods that did this to him. Going so long without sleep, coupled without any sort of entertainment or something to pass the time, caused the temporary deteriation of the once admired sanity of the tactician, with the bitterness of betrayal weighting the heaviest upon Mark's mind.

As more and more his mind slipped into darkness, he began to see enemies where enemies were not. He became more convinced that every member of Eliwood's Elite feigned all show of friendship and were always plotting his demise. Somehow, someway he'd escape this place and exact retribution for the misdeeds carried out against him. Every show of affection was lie, all to lull himself into complacency, and when his back was finally turned one of them would have stuck the knife in it.

The images of all he had seen and experienced in the few days still scorched his mind like magma. Visions of all he had witnessed, heard, and experienced washed over his conscious mind like flood waters. Those horrifying sights forever burned into his brain, playing over and over again like a demonic cackle. No matter how many times the images replayed in his mind the same question would always pose itself: what prompted these soldiers to commit such acts upon their fellow man? What benefit would be achieved by carrying out such barbarism? Did the warrior of ancient times have something to gain by forcing a father of defeated people to ravage his own daughter(4)? Were the riches and possessions the legionaire ransacked from a conquered city worth the impoverishment of its people? What of the officers who decided to employ the use of plague in overcoming opposition. Afterall, loading catapults with the remains of disease-ridden carcasses and launching them at the city they sought to break had the consequence of infecting the innocent peasants inside as well as the soldiers upon its walls.

"Hah, there is no God or any sort of divinity. All this world is, and will always be, is a petrid cesspool of suffering peasants and self-serving nobles. And yet, they're still those with the arrogance to presume there's some sort of higher purpose behind it all. What a vile joke to dangle over the heads of equally vile humanbeings," he had seen the worst humanity had to offer with no redeeming quality in sight. The only shocked that came to him was how long it took him to realize that the world is cruel place full of more wickedness than pleasure.

Now that he realized his life was soon to be taken, somehow, in spite the conclusion he had reached, the desire to live on burned in him greater than a dying star. He always abhorred suicide and believe it be the coward's way out.

"Imbeciles, they fail to realize how eager the grave is to swallow them up regardless if they desire it or not. When one perishes that is all their fate holds. There is no salvation from this doomed existence and certainly none in death."

He mused, if the shamanistic religions were correct; whether his animus would make the transformation into phantom. It was widely believed that whenever soul is overwrought with bitterness, that it made the transition from benign to manevolence, cursed forever in a vicious cycle of preying upon the living and enduring the loathing they died carrying.

As skeptical and hostile toward the prospect of deities he was at the moment, there is no doubt in his mind that demons existed for he had witnessed firsthand a man who nearly made the ascension to one.

--

**AdCon: I was under a little pressure to finish this chapter to show I'm still alive and well, so it is more rushed than others. I apologize for those who feel it was shiite. I promise the next chapter will be better.**

**Still, it provided the pivotal motives for Mark's actions in the future. Still, he has one more personal travesty before he makes that transformation.**

**Lute: I noticed you added some fluff.**

**AdCon: Yes, I put in some fluff for those who enjoy it. I don't have my mind made up on couples in future(except canon couples such as Bartre and Karla) updates, so I'll take suggestions. And if anyone suggests a non-heterosexual couple I will see to it both characters are killed off.**

**Lute: Your bluffs are pretty transparent.**

**AdCon: Yeah, but they didn't know that until now. Thanks a bunch. And I was hoping I could deter the legions of fuckwit yaoi lovers with my idle threats.**

**Ahem**

**(1) Crocodile Tube is the name of the machine Mark was tortured by in chapter three. **

**(2) I will give anyone a dollar via paypal(not really) if they successfully guess why I picked this name.**

**(3) In the Japanese version of The Blazing Sword, "Basilisk's Glance" is the name of Nergal's class. If you ask me, that title is a hundred times cooler than "Dark Druid," which is not only redundant since regular druids use dark magic, but contradictary since Nergal could also use anima and light magic. From now on consider Basilisk's Glance and Dark Druid interchangeable.**

**(4) Didn't make that up, despite how over the top it was. The ancient Assyrians actually did that for fun.**

**I'd also pondering whether I should write a humor fic following the misadventures of Shinon and his assholery in regards to the other members of the Greil Mercenaries. Leave some feedback on that idea.**

**Lastly, please, please leave a review. This lets me know what you think or if I'm wasting my time since no one can be assed into voicing opinions. The greatest incentive for an author to continue their work is to have others say what they think and make suggestions on improvement. **

**Lute: "Now you're just whoring for reviews."**

**The way I see it: if the person reading this can't be assed to drop a quick review then why should I be in any hurry? Obviously no one cares enough about my story to review. Regardless, I'll update review or not, but it'll take MUCH longer if no one tells me what they think.**

**Thanks to those who have submitted reviews to the story. I still hope I live up to what you expect.**


	5. Grief

**AdCon: Back. Did any of you miss me? **

**Lute: It's bittersweet. I was free of your idiocy and yet I had no one to keep in line within the confines of muse purgatory. Do you realize how witless some of the other muses can be? None of them could keep up with my intellectual prowess, then again very few can.**

**AdCon: Sorry about my long leave absence. It seems life likes throwing a wrench in my literary crank. Plus, I couldn't get my favorite radio commentator for the longest time, and I find writing much easier whilst listening to him.**

**I'm also been working a lot of overtime so I could afford a nice, new REC7 to replace my aging AR-15, which had a toll on my writing time. Sorry about that, guys, but I promise I'll make up for the lost time.**

**Moving on, we have a lot of ground to cover and I have a lot of work ahead of me. Lute, if you would kindly.**

**Lute: AdCon does not own Fire Emblem or any of its characters or intellectual properties. He merely wishes he did in his candy land fantasy.**

**AdCon: What the fruck is wrong with candy land? They use candy as currency. I guarantee you no one would ever lose chocolate bars in 401ks.**

**Conquest of Elibe**

**Chapter V**

"_All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." - Edmund Burke_

**--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

The tactician was starting to succumb to the effects of the strange disease even further. Aside from the swollen lymph nodes that formed around his jugular, he had persistent convulsions resulting in uncontrollable shaking. It had gotten to the point the no longer cared about his capture or treatment, just some form of deliverance from this purgatory. What a pitiful creature he had become - clinging to life and subsisting like a common alley rat. Eating scraps and accepting any meager fare given by his tormentors.

The boils still hurt him greatly, but he learned to ignore it and sat down in his cell briefly catching a few moments of sleep before being awakened by the pain of applying too much pressure to the infected areas in current sitting position.

Despite all his misfortune he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't take the coward's way out. No, even at this point the would not be broken like a dry twig. Somehow, someway, he would escape. His sanity, for the most part, had returned but not in its entirety. He still retained enough mental lucidity to reflect on his current affair.

He did not know how much time had subsided, but he figured the date for his execution had expired. For whatever reason, his execution had been postponed, but no matter how long it took for that final closing in his life, he would meet the same fate, death. Unless he could figure out a way to flee.

"No, I'm not destined to die in this place. I'll make my escape one way or another." he thought with the utmost defiance.

Accepting one's fate and embracing death were two different things. Mark had not done the latter. If there's anything this ordeal had done it was completely change his outlook. Friendship's a lie, love's temporary and loyalty is fake.

The more he thought about the more he resentful he became. His "friends" were on the outside enjoying themselves with families and romances he never had. The group itself was a tight-knit family with one black sheep; himself. It was common knowledge some of Eliwood's Elite disliked him personally(As is the case for any large group. Not everyone will mesh well) for his lack of perceived superego, but he wasn't without a conscience. He only hid it out of sheer necessity, yet some of them viewed him as nothing more than as a guiltless monster. The ingrates! Not only had they so easily forgotten what he had done but so did the world itself!

Everything he had shaped himself into was solely for his career path. Something for the greater good or so thought the tactician. He wore the mantle of callous overseer because it was a role that needed to be filled. He did so because it benefited the world as a whole to have someone willing to take on jobs where a strong conscience would be a hindrance. He did it all for them, his fake comrades and yet they still looked down upon him.

It galled him. He fought for this world and just as well swallowed him up as it did rotate. For him, this was the ultimate indignation. Akin to having a lover murder you for a better suitor, a friend betraying you for profit, a parent choosing another child over you.

These "friends" of his would pay. The very fabric of contemporary society would suffer for casting him down. How he would reap retribution and all its bitter glory! The very notion danced on his mind and was the only thing to put a smile, albeit, short lived one on his now haggard face.

Of course, he would begin with that bastard, Pent. The so called archsage-in-training and pillar of Etrurian sovereignty - whose very dealings deserve condemnation at best. Yet, if he our Pent were to stand a hypothetical trial over recent events - namely whether Pent had truly betrayed Mark and condemned an innocent man - the entire world would side with the Mage General over some obscured tactician. This very thought was as infuriating to Mark as being stabbed in the back by the Mage General.

No matter how moral an individual, it seemed to the tactician that it is all for naught. Every good deed is inconsequential. This world, with its partisanship, would choose a noble over a commoner in a heartbeat despite how upstanding the commoner may be. This world is blind to good and evil, but not blind to status.

Being locked up, beaten, bruised, humiliated, tortured and stripped of his freedom for so long sent him further and further into a mad, unquenchable hatred for his adversaries. The same kind of hatred that prompts men to order the mass slaughter of innocent people. Thinking how both ignorant and apathetic the world was to his misfortune did not help his current mood.

"Perhaps Nergal had not been so wrong after all," A stranger's voice greeted Mark's ears in the dark.

Immediately, Mark's survival instincts flared. Though, being chained a wall forced him into both an immobile and helpless position. If this stranger wanted him dead the assailant wouldn't have much of a challenge.

Trying his best to sound as imitating as possible, Mark demanded the stranger show himself. He realized how ridiculous he sounded, barking orders to someone he didn't know un top of being in position to make demands.

"Of course," was the response Mark got, much to his surprise….

With the tap of a staff on the floor and reciting an archaic incantation the head of said rod began to glow until it completely illuminated area they were in.

The man before Mark was something the tactician only heard about in rumors. Standing before Mark was man who wore a void-black cloak. The man's short stature belied an unnaturally deep and convoluted voice, producing a flanging effect. His body was completely covered by his garment save for his hands which were a sickly tan and utterly malnourished to a point where the nerves and sinews could be visibly seen. Not only that, but his nails were both grimy and abnormally long - rendering this man an almost goblin-like caricature. The most striking physical feature was the mask this mysterious visitor wore - scavenged from the skull of some bizarre animal.

The skull itself was appeared a mix between a stag's, horse's and wolf's skull. The crooked antlers protruded outward producing even more crooked antlers along the primary horn's base. The elongated skull looked like it belonged to no natural creature. It had numerous cracks and holes in it and was an unsightly gangly mix of yellow and the natural white of skeletal remains. The jaws of that skull were far more menacing. Jagged teeth jutted at every angle. It seemed as though the creature, whose skulls this used to belong to never once gnawed on anything to shorten the length its teeth grew. As a result, those menacing incisors twisted and punctured the creature's own skull in multiple places leading Mark to believe its was in constant pain. The resulting image was that of a horribly deformed and perpetually snarling monster, horrid beyond further description.

Before Mark could speak his mind the man finished his sentence for him.

"'_Who am I?' An emissary of a clan that seeks true ascension. Very similar to the man you, or rather, your group slew at the Dragon's Gate since you lacked the power to do so yourself." the stranger said in all too imperious and condescending tone for Mark's taste._

The tactician was silent. Damn, had he became that predicable?

"_No. Mastering the ancient darkness provides a whole new venue of abilities. Reading the minds of lesser willed individuals among them_."

Mark stilled tried his hand at silence doing his best to convolute his own mind with irrelevant thoughts hoping to throw this mind reader off the scent.

"_That is going to avail you naught. You're too hate filled at this point to deceive me_."

"I suppose if you were able to discern that much then my attempts were futile," resigned the tactician, knowing full well his efforts were in vain.

"_Yes, but it says a lot about yourself. That all, however, is a discussion for another time. Oh, and I'm certainly not Etrurian in response to your rising suspicion_."

Something about this guy irked Mark. Not only was everything about him eerie, but he liked to hear himself talk, which the staff officer always found less than admirable.

"_An addendum to your first question - I'm merely a concerned friend," the stranger said though he were reciting a particularly vulgar joke with a less than conspicuous grin._

"Concerned friend?" Mark repeated monotone, "Are you trying to screw with me?!"

In his deluded mind, the tactician could no longer stomach the word "friend" reviling his formers ones as the mutual perpetrators and benefactors in his demise.

At Mark's outburst the stranger let out a manic cackle; not hiding his amusement at the tactician reproach as he were a stroppy child throwing a tantrum.

""_Trying to screw with me' he says. Oh, the naiveté of youth!" Having his laughter die down the man continued. "No, I'm not trying to any such thing. Don't scowl at me like that and we'll have a little chat."_

Now Mark was interested. Who in their right mind would break into a military fortress just to talk to him? He wouldn't lie to himself, he was harboring a clinical case of cabin fever and would willingly talk to just about anyone.

"Fine. Do you go by a name or will I have to refer to you as 'stranger?'"

"_I can see where that impersonal title would be awkward in casual conservation. You may refer to me as Schadenfreude…….yes, that sums me up quite nicely," _the man mused, _"First, let's take the time to discuss a less serious matter, namely the man that was Nergal_."

"What of him?" The tactician asked trying his best to sound as though he had never come into contact with the menace. Suspicion unfailing, If this man was an accomplice of the late Dark Druid he has surely come to exact reprisal on Mark's head.

"_He sought to accomplish goals at whatever means necessary. If anything, he lived for centuries and acquired nearly anything he desired. Nergal's only folly was classic arrogance. He underestimated his foes and paid the ultimate price for his foolishness. Had he been more cautious, then perhaps just perhaps, he would be alive today reaping immortality. But no, as a result of hubris crude and mere human foes were able to both outfight and outsmart him…. Now, the question, had you been in that position would have things been different? How would you of used that power and to what ends?" _

"I see no point in dangling a hypothetic over my head. I'll never possess that kind of power."

"_Oh, I don't know about that. Anything is possible with the right applications and you seem like a bright enough lad, no? At least you seem this way in comparison to the dimwitted shamans clamoring to me for an iota of knowledge."_

Still, everything this man just said was true. Himself…….with power? With just a modicum of power could do so much his id tempted him to do. He was always a weakling, point of derision among his peers sometimes facetious and sometimes contemptuous. With that sort of power he could set such wondrous things in motions and the terrible things he could conduct without any consequence. Whatever appealed to him would not be out of reach. A means to an end and what an end that would be…..

"_Ahem, I truly hate having to break you out of your reflections, but there's still much left unsaid.," _Schadenfreude told the tactician not at all hiding his lack of patience.

The emissary had to congratulate himself. Not only had he so craftily forced the Superb Mind into a position of subservience to himself, but had caused the tactician to start coveting the same kind of power that have driven so many before him down a shadowy path. Even if he wasn't willing to do as morally reprehensible things for that desire - it was only a matter of time before that seed fully grew. From here on out, all Raffinierter need do is meticulously cultivate that seed, that lust for power, that hunger for pain and that penchant for extremism.

How many centuries has it been? Too many to count, but for some reason Mark reminded Raffinierter of a semi-innocent Garnef(1) prior to his mentor expelling him for unscrupulous practices. After all, Garnef's institutions were pure from the start, but he let those intentions rot away. Leaving behind a power-crazed fiend hell-bent on world domination.

"Oh well. All in due time and with my plan that time will be very short," thought Schadenfreude, Now is the time to put that plan in motion.

"_I'm primarily here to talk about you. Or rather, what might the future hold for you.," _The emissary took caution in choosing his word. All he had to do was further pique the staff officer's interest. He continued his dialogue while pacing back and forth as though addressing an audience not once meeting the tactician's eye.

"_No doubt, I've established that I and my clan know about your exploits. In truth, we were going to get rid of you since we believed you would provide a minor inconvenience to our goals, but now, considering everything you experienced and brooded over, I've decided you might be more sympathetic toward my group's aims. So instead of simply killing you, I'll release you so you might carry out your revenge; however, I'll only do so under two conditions." _

Mark had said nothing except contemplate this would-be savior's ulterior motive. If he's learned anything that nothing's truly free. Everyone is working from an angle and wants something or another.

"_The first condition you must accept. The second you may choose to decline or not, though it's only a matter of time before we gain your consent."_

"And why, pray tell, is second not compulsory?" Mark asked dripping with his trade mark sardonic tone.

The emissary took the opportunity to lean down on floor and draw some archaic symbol with a fragment of obsidian while responding.

"_As I said, whether you agree to the second or not is only a matter of time. When you fulfill the first one I'm certain you'll agree to it…and if you do not it'll only be a matter before you oblige me," the man stated all-too nonchalantly. _

"Fine," the tactician finally gave his approval. He had no other choice; he could either risk his life with Raffinierter or stay here and certainly die.

"_Excellent. I'm sure…. well I know you're wondering how we'll leave. The answer is teleportation. And now, youe escape won't go unnoticed but that is irrelevant. I've been watching this fort's commander from afar and can say without a doubt he's a coward. He most likely will not report your absence to his superiors in fear of the punishment he'd receive for letting a prisoner escape. Now, I hope that answers any and all your question for now."_

Done with his previous task, the emissary stood upright and conjured a slither of dark energy in his left palm, Raffinierter dispersed it by clenching his hand and forcing the tendrils of darkness to destroy all of Mark's restraints. This indicated to Mark this man was an accomplished druid to be able to control and direct his spells with such precision. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from this emissary.

"_Now, if you would kindly stand in the moduli rune I took the liberty to draw.." _

Following Schadenfreude's instructions the tactician did just that. The glyph's runes immediately began to glow a brilliant purple, registering the human entering it's concentric circle and by design teleported him to a foreordained locations on the other side of the continent.

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_The tactician decided to sit down on a rickety crate on the pier. He wasn't much of a nautical man, and whenever disembarking from a ship after a long sea voyage it helped him to find a stable sitting position. Going from land-legs to sea-legs back to land-legs took its toll on his equilibrium. _

_Still, what they did back on the Dread isles needed to be done. Nergal had been defeated and with that any foreseeable threat to the world from the ancient sorcerer. All their efforts and sacrifices were not for naught and Eliwood's Elite averted a crisis of Biblical proportions _

_Mark leaned back on the crate with his arms folded behind his head and legs partially dangling over the sides. Maybe he could go back to more carefree times. He never liked to delude himself with false hope, but perhaps this once he would allow himself the luxury. The group had been to hell and back and lived throughout, a remarked achievement in itself. He may have been a weak individual physically; however, he had come to rely on words and guile. Despite his successes he had much to learn, always someone out there better at strategem. They may have not been on Elibe, but perhaps a distant continent facilitated a challenge for him to meet head on. Perhaps he could just live a content life as a peasant. It may have lacked the excitement he craved, but it did provide a staple to an otherwise dangerous and stressful undertaking. _

_His future, though full of possibility, seemed limited its variety. Pent had offered a lucrative post with the Etrurian military, he had already heard his share of the heavy-handed ways of Etrurian nobility. Illia was out of the question considering how utterly barren and destitute the country was. Lycia, in the past a bloody quagmire of feuding states, had become a more stable, albeit, loose confederacy. He reasoned, that despite his distaste, Bern would be his destination…_

"_Mark, could I have a word with you for a moment?"_

_The tactician instinctively knew who the speaker was without the necessity of looking to who it was. Raising his head, he responded._

"_Sure, Lyn, what's on your mind?"_

"_I want to speak of our latest battle."_

"_What of it?"_

"_I'm wondering do you believe Kent will make a full recovery from his injury? I've spoken with the healers and they say he will, but you have more battlefield experience than they do."_

"_Well, I'm no physician and certainly don't pretend to be one, however, In my opinion he should heal nicely. I've witnessed men endure graver wounds and able to fight with the best of them. As you'll remember, Serra took a nasty blast from a flux was able to prattle on and on about how's there's no gentlemen left in the world. Though, that big mouth probably made a her a glaring…scrap that… blaring target."_

_Lyn couldn't help but giggle at Mark's insinuation. _

"_Liked that, did you? Buy a bottle of whiskey and I guarantee you I'll be twice as wit."_

"_Of course and I' willl put on an apron and cook your every meal," Lyn teased good naturedly._

"_That'd be nice. Not enough of the female sex know their place these days." Mark said to goad Lyn._

"_Oh?" Lyn snorted indignantly._

"_Yeah. I figure human fatality would be down by tenfold if world leaders only had a pretty lass or two to cook decent meals. Instead, they're bombarded with conniving wenches that want to steal their power and wealth."_

"_I hope for your well-being you are not implying females are at fault for wars."_

"_I never said that, but neither did I rule it out…." Mark further teased knowing full well Lyn had less than amiable thoughts on gender roles or misogyny._

_To his surprise, Lyn didn't take offense., to the contrary, she turned the tables on him. _

"_Well, Mark, maybe we should test your theory. We should spar sometime to see who is right. We Sacaens have a believe that which ever said is right will always prevail in the end. So whoever wins our match will be the correct."_

"_C'mon, Lyn, you know I was only kidding."_

"_Oh but you sounded so confident a little while ago. Surely you'd stand up for your beliefs." The Sacaen princess said with a grin and arms folded in triumph._

_Mark contemplated feigning dire illness to get out of this predicament. Damn, if only he could chronically vomit. Even though he never actually believed a word he was saying, he didn't like admitting he was wrong._

_Bowing before the person in front him, the tactician laid it on thick._

"_Alright, Lyn, I was wrong. Please forgive the ignorance of this imbecile and charlatan." Mark recanted knowing that an apology would land him out of this situation. He didn't like it, but he really didn't like getting thoroughly beaten either._

_Lyn only further giggled at Mark's mock-groveling. _

"_Fine, I will forgive you this once, but do watch that tongue of yours. It will land you in more trouble than you would desire."_

_The tactician stood up and saluted Lyn in the same way a recruit would an authoritarian sergeant. _

"_Is there anything else you'd like to discuss or is all your question put at rest, Lyn?"_

"_Well…yes."_

"_What is it?"_

_Looking over her shoulder to the bulk of Eliwood's Elite, Lyn began in a softer tone._

"_Do you recall our first meeting?"_

"_Where you saved my life? Of course I do. I'm still in your debt you for that."_

"_Remember what I said when I asked to accompany you?" Lyn said with folded arms behind her back and eyes glazed looking to the side._

"_That you wanted to become stronger to avenge your fallen kinsmen, correct?"_

"_Yes, but that's just it. I've become stronger, have I not?"_

"_You're certainly more capable than 90% of the men in this army."_

"_Wallace told me he already slew the Taliver Bandits. So there is no reason for me to persue strength. It makes the pursuit of that goal futile now. In my mind, strength was only a means to an end. A pathway to whetting justice against those who so wrongfully stole my tribe from me, yet those very individuals had already been purged from the face of Mother Earth. With the Taliver dead what direction should I steer my life? All this casts my previous actions in doubt."_

"_How so? You guys saved the world and just in time for brunch."_

"_Mark, this is serious. Please hear me out."_

"_Very well. Please precede. What is weighing on your heart?"_

"_We have fought and killed men. Most of them were evil, yes, but not all. What of the ones who were only fighting to feed family or fight a cause they sincerely believed in? How will their mothers, fathers, brothers, sister or children feel when they discover their loved ones has been taken from them? It is disgusting…knowing that we have potentially filled so many hearts with grief. All I need do is close my eyes and remember how my tribe were butchered, their surprise, their pain and their sorrow. The thought we……no I may be inflicting the same pain on others as I felt is something I'm not so sure I can handle."_

"_Soldier's remorse," Mark canted distinctly but almost inaudibly before speaking further.. _

"_Understand this, Lyn, no one person is above fallibility. We, as mortal beings, often and almost constantly err. Perhaps that is why religion is such an inseparable characteristic of humanity. We seek out celestial beings who are not capable of error; humans following the example of gods in hopes we might liberate ourselves of fault and indecision."_

"_How does that…?"_

"_Listen," Mark interrupted her._

"_I'm confident that each and everyone of those soldiers knew that they ran the risk of death. I'm sure none of them would bear you grudge for doing what you did. True, their families will mourn their passing, but time heals all wounds, or some I've been lead to believe. Look in yourself . You still weep for your fallen brothers and sisters, yet you've found happiness. In this ragtag group of misfits you've found a semblance of a family. You moved beyond a life of despair and rage….as I'm sure your parents would want. That their daughter lived a life free of remorse and despondence. _

_Smiling at these words, Lyn felt a little solace. He didn't think of himself, but Mark could brotherly when he wasn't in a corner gagging in disgust because of the individuals in the center of the room._

"_What do you think of will become of our group, Mark?"_

"_I assume most will part ways. Continue with their lives or pick up the pieces."_

"_Some of the group are mercenaries. Do you suppose they may meet on the battlefield on opposing sides?"_

"_Perhaps, such is the life of us sellswords. Friend one day, foe the next day. Sounds awfully like marriage."_

"_Mark…"_

"_Yes, Lyn?"_

"_I know you might have had a rocky relationship with some of people in this group, but would you ever fight against any of us if you were employed to do so?"_

"_Hmm, an interesting question. That all hinges if you believe me that type of character."_

"_That does not help to reassure me," Lyn teased._

_Mark grabbed by the arms and then into an embrace. _

"_Lyn, I'd never do anything to harm you physically or emotionally. I promise."_

_To say Lyn was taken aback by this gesture would be an understatement. Completely Dumbstruck would be more accurate. The aloof and reclusive staff officer never showed this sentimental attachment before. Lyn, at a loss for words, closed her eyes and returned the show of affection. They had endured a great deal together and this show of endearing friendship was the fruit of their efforts. _

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Schadenfreude transported the emancipated tactician to an obscure roadside. At first, his mind was in a daze and slightly disoriented from the effects of the teleportation. Bit by bit, he regained his senses with alacrity. As his mental keenness returned he immediately recognized the road as one he traveled many times in his past. This venue led to one way and it was a path he had only dreamt of returning to. The road led to the Bernese village where he originally left, where his lover awaited for him.

Bastilla must have worried about greatly him, but at last he was free from his prison and torment. Fort Severe and everything he endured there had finally subsided in favor of better things. Like he awoken from a terrible night terror. The emotional and physical scars are permanent; all that is left to do is try to move on. Write a new chapter in his life that random had presented him.

Despite his injuries and his physical mediocrity he was able to run the half-mile, as though having renewed vigor due to his liberation, he cleared the two miles run in under ten minutes. He observed that Schadenfreude had vanished, but at the moment it concerned him very little. The eerie sorcerer was a man he would not under normal circumstances associate with.

Something chilling began to crawl up his spine during this time. It was all too good to be true. The more he ran the more feeling of dread began to overtake him. He couldn't explain it, but the more he neared his destination the stronger this feeling took hold. Like a voice in his told him to turn back; nothing good would come of him returning to the town. No, he must return, what idiocy is this? All he had going was an inkling of intuition telling him to turn around.

He turned one winding road and another to draw nearer and now that voice became even more shrill. Despite his best efforts, he could force the feeling out of mind. With a grim perserverence he turned the next bend in the road, which would put him on a perpendicular hill to the town and it in clear view.

What he saw would stroke his being and every action he took in the next twenty-four years. The village that he left was no more. All that were left ransacked builders and piles of corpses littering the streets. Pillaged and destroyed by a bandit raid, no survivors were left in sight. Even the children and livestock were butchered as a grisly reminder that anyone is fair game in this dog-eats-dog world.

At first Mark collapsed to his knees unable to make a perceptible sound. Then he began to laugh hysterically, laughter not belonging to any sane or mentally healthy individual. He laughed and laughed until he let out blood curdling scream that human vocal cords would not permit. He felt his throat tighten as though to accommodate a bout of nonsensical sobbing accompanied by his gut twist sending a wave of nausea felt only with the most severe food poisoning. This was too much, he was distraught and far gone beyond any consolation. This was beyond lugubrious, this was something no human being should endure. If he had held on to any iota of faith or love for humanity it now fell apart at the seams.. All he could do now was hit the stone road with his fists until they bled and fractured.

He remembered before he left Bastilla had spoken to him, telling the tactician that she was expected with child. Now gone, both dead and gone forever. He lost a lover he told he loved and a child he never knew. All for what? To sate the political thirst and greed of lesser men?

Everything he had, every reason and any modicum of enjoyment he had was gone. His friends, his property, his prestige, his livelihood, his sensibilities, his wife and child now all gone. Gone forever and there's absolutely nothing he could do to reclaim them. Stolen from his feeble grasped by a world and people he helped save from Nergal.

"_Now do you see the world and human race for what it is, __**truly **__is__**?" **_The dark voice of Schadenfreude emanated as he materialized beside Mark, gazing down at the same site that's having such an emotional impact.

"You….you…BASTARD!" The tactician half-shrieked, half-chucked trying his best not to be reduced to utter tears. It was apparent from his red and watery eyes that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"You knew, YOU KNEW THIS WHAT I WOULD SEE!"

This is what the emissary wanted the tactician to see from the start. To witness a faint eidolon of hope torn from his grasp. To suffer such an emotional tragedy to spurn into greater depths of depravity and misanthropy.

"_Indeed I did. Know that I only wanted to show you the truth." The emissary replied defensively._

"WHAT TRUTH, YOU ASSHOLE!? TO…TO…TO BREAK ME DOWN?! The tactician paused to force the lump in his throat down, "WHY ME?! WHA-WHAT THE HELL DID…DID I DO TO DE-DESERVE ALL THIS!?"

"_Absolutely nothing. That is what I wanted to show you. This world - nay - this very universe amoral and antithetical to all happiness. There is no purpose for anything, every good deed is null, every individual is unimportant, every notion of morality is meaningless. You're the prime example, you did nothing to warrant this fate and yet it still happened. Why? Simply because the world could cast you down. Humanity being the accomplice in all this." _

"_The universe, in all its absurdities, wrought few which are more so than the human race. There are those who say humans are naturally good at heart, but they delusional fools. There are that believe humans look out for one another and are above corruption, capable of working together for a common good, but they are abject idiots. No, a real wise man, a truly enlightened individuals will dispel this opiate and accept the fact: all life is essentially a perversion, a big, cosmic fluke. Anyone who tries to attain the moral high is a contemptible wretch hopelessly clinging to a good versus evil dichotomy to compensate for their own self-perceived lack of purpose. Ever notice moral egotists, whom champion the rights of the masses, are the most likely to exploit and lead them to demise?"_

Turning on his heel to leave Schadenfreude turned his head to Mark to speak one last verse.

"_I have shown you and now is time for the second , optional condition I spoke of. You have seen what I wanted you see and now you reach a fork in the road. I extend to you an invitation to join my clan. If you join, you will learn things the most ancient of sages couldn't teach and acquire power beyond all human scope. Before you ask why I'm extending this invite, you have lost everything, every anchor that ties you to humanity. That makes you a ripe candidate. You'll soon learn that the greatest and most powerful of individuals are those who reject their humanity."_

Any man would blanch at the proposition. A deal with the devil would be how many would see this agreement. The tactician no longer had any sort of misgiving. What else could happen to him? Everything of value had been violent ripped from his embrace. Still shaken and with a quivering voice, the tactician hesitated before giving his response.

"Y-yes. I accept."

"_Excellent, I see great things in store for you, initiate. Welcome to the Orde," _the emissary replied in the same manner a mantis would hungrily click its mandibles when presented with a prey.

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It was a strange thing for Sain to acknowledge. Mark's demise seemed to be among the most foreign concepts in his mind. The overseer of their campaign yielded the ghost and was no more among the world of the living. With his analytical mind, it seemed like somehow he could deduce death and cheat it. Yet, the tactician, like them all, was a mortal man.

When the tactician's death three months ago became public Sain was incredulous, to say the least. He expected that any day Mark would pop up and say the whole thing was some sort of sick joke on his part, but Mark never showed up. The Green Lance wanted to believe that Pent's investigation was flawed, but Pent was a resourceful man whom rarely botched details. Gradually, Sain accepted the official report and hoped that some of the more sentimental or closer friends of the late staff officer would find solace.

For Sain, what was left was a feeling of disappointment coupled with regret. Regret for not being there to help in sparing his friend an untimely death. Disappointment in his friend for not doing what he does best and evading his own coffin. Instead, he suffered the retribution of renegade Black Fang assassins.

In the end, he supposed his feelings on the matter was simply the byproduct of how most people feel whenever a close friend or loved one perishes prematurely. There was so much left unsaid between the tactician and many of Eliwood's Elite. They all had mixed feelings on Mark and he on them. Some were more understanding of the way he conducted himself. A few regarded him impersonally. Another demography treated or at least thought of him as a sort of den father of that misfit group. A portion saw him as among the wisest humanity had to offer. There were a select few who thought of him as a pompous ass, though with a good reason for being a pompous. Another percentage was close to him, perhaps had circumstances been better, they could have been more so than just friends. Then again, that's true for a lot of boy-girl relations. Whatever the conception, they all could agree that without him their campaign would have been much more difficult.

Sain was certain that many, had they the option, would have many things to say to him, indeed, he would have as well. Some nice and others not so. After the end of their campaign against Nergal their tactician disappeared without so much as a goodbye to most members. Some may have resented him for doing this, but what whether they realized it or not, the more said put them more in unnecessary danger. He kept in contact strictly and scarcely with Hector, Eliwood, Matthew, and Pent. This contact was merely out of necessity, which didn't help the tactician's image at all within group. Some were left disenfranchised, believing Mark had a moral obligation to maintain friendships after all the hardships the tight nit group overcame, Lyn included, who had a falling-out prior to the tactician's departure after that final battle with the fiendish Nergal.

Kent, stern as ever, took the news with a straight face and a condolence, though Sain believed Kent was of the same opinion as himself. The Steward of Caelin had come to rely and benefit from Mark's wisdom on the matters of war. In his heart of hearts, he knew that the world had become a less better place due to this loss.

Wallace wasn't as somber as the rest of Caelin's group. He applauded the tactician's non-linear thinking in the ways of war, but the two more often than naught exchanged barbs.

Fiora took the news less graciously then Sain expected. According to what Kent had told him, Fiora had now, more than ever, been trying harder to put a emotional wall between herself and others as a form of self-defenese to prevent anymore heartache. She did, after all, feel indebted to Mark for encouragement he provided to her younger sister and she worked closely with him as subordinate and commander. In truth, neither Sain nor Kent could blame her. Everyone in her pegasi wing was taken out by Black Fang which lead to a period of self doubt in her life, but with the death of the group's tactician and Geitz only opened old wounds. She, more than everyone, came to realize the mortality of those around her. Sometimes it's too late to say goodbye to lovers and friends. Her strength would carry her, but now was time for mourning.

On his way back to Castle Caelin from training his sword arm, the Green Lance allowed his mind to draw the scene of the tactician's last moments in his head. He envisioned that Mark, on a dark night in the countryside of Etruria, was surrounded on all sides, a lone man against a score of professional assassins. They would of told him to surrender himself, in turn, he would of retorted some clever half-insult, defiant to the end. Sain couldn't help stifle a grin on his face as looked up to the turret of Castle Caelin. If anything, at least Mark retained his dry-wit to the grave.

Sain, after all, had somewhat of a rocky, albeit mutually respectful relationship with the late staff officer. Many in the group saw Sain as an otiose womanizer, but the tactician seemed less judgmental and recognized the inherent talent in the Green Lance. To his credit, Mark never neglected use of Sain's lance arm for the sake of preconceived notions.

As he entered the hustle and bustle of Castle Caelin couldn't help but wonder how Lyn would take the news. She and the tactician shared the most flagrant relationship within the army, leaving some to guess on their chemistry. They do say that the fiercest relations are due to the most passionate individuals. Though Mark may have lacked or just concealed his feelings, Lyn was more upfront with her emotions on various issues. Would she be sad, angry, indifferent, relieved, what? How would she take Mark's death? She left with Rath back to the Sacaen Plains after the passing of her Grandfather, Lord Hassar, and had not been in contact with the rest of Elibe. On that matter, had she even heard? Sacaen, with exception of the Nabata Desert, was the most secluded place on the continent. It's a natural assumption that she had not yet been informed.

On his way to the his personal quarters Kent intercepted him.

"What brings you my way, brother-in-arms? Decided to cede the position of Steward to me?"

Sighing, Kent answered his more than overly light-hearted friend.

"Sain, this is not the time. I just received an official envoy from the secretary of House Pherae. Eliwood wishes to hold a joint memorial service in honor for all of our group who've fallen. I came her to inform you so that you and I can go pay our respects."

Sain pondered for a brief second over the ramifications before replying again.

"So who else will be attending memorial?"

I am not sure, but it is an open invitation for anyone who served in our army. It wouldn't be too farfetched to assume some nobles may attend as well as some former members of Eliwood's Elite."

"Only you and I are going to be the delegation from Caelin? I understand Wallace must remain behind to see to our canton's security while we're gone, but why not Fiora?"

At this point in the conversation, Kent's disposition softened.

"I have half a mind to ask Fiora not to come. It'd be good for her to see her Florina, undoubtedly attending with Lord Hector, but it may reinforce emotions better left under the surface. Ultimately, it's up to her if she comes or goes and I'll stand by whatever decisions she makes."

Sain had an "I-see" expression to his face, but that shifted to his more common, devious grin whenever he sees a fair lass that catches his eye.

"I'll just note that as concern for your lover."

"Sain, you dimwit! Now's not the time for your overactive imagination."

"Relax, my boon companion, everyone needs a little romance, present company included. Anyways, how long until we leave?"

"We'll be leaving in three days. The journey should take roughly a week or two if we depart on horseback."

"Then it's settled. We'll pay our late benefactors and hopefully meet pretty damsels en route."

At this point Kent face-palmed and remarked as his friend left, "You remain as incorrigible as ever, Sain, but at least there's someone to keep their spirits up," looking out the window to the common folk attending their daily routine ignorant to any plight that might befall them Kent further commented "Elimine knows we need that in these dire times."

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**AdCon: And that is chapter five. I know you guys have been waiting a while for it, but I haven't forgotten about you all. This fanfic is a labor of love for all you fans out there as well as an excuse to shirk my responsibilities. Hell, I've been waiting for Duke Nukem Forever to come out for the last eleven years so I know the frustration of the wait.**

**Now, this chapter was a little bit more emotionally charged than I would have liked, but now I've established all the causes for our beleaguered tacticians actions and motivations for future chapters. Thankfully, I can say from here on out the emotion will be severely toned down, but there will be emphatic moments to come, plus, one more chapter after this and the first story arc will be concluded. I can tell you, I'll have a lot of fun writing the scene with Mark and Lyn's falling out just for the sake of sap. **

**I really wanted to insert a fight scene or physical confrontation, hell I even tried but found it would disrupt the flow of the chapter. Rest assured, there WILL be lots of fighting in future establishments especially when Roy and Mark cross paths. So for those of you who feel short-changed because of that know I've got you covered.**

**Now, do something different and let Lute explain the author's notes.**

**Lute:**

**(1) Garnef, the infamous Dark Pontifex and Usurper o f****Khadein, I've read all about him in my copy of **_**Anthologies and History of Akaneia Volume VII. **_**Perhaps AdCon is attempting to establish a sort of continuum between the Fire Emblem games.**

**AdCon: That's it and thanks for reading.**


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